


Albatross

by stitchcasual



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Abusive Relationship (past), Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bouncer!Hawke, Drug Addiction, Fenris gets therapy, M/M, Minor Character Death, Red-Purple Hawke, Smut, Templars are a gang, Wicked Grace, Withdrawal, because my poor baby needs it, vague discussions of racism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 23:28:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 42
Words: 177,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7733971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/pseuds/stitchcasual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke's life is full: between working as a bouncer at The Hanged Man five nights a week and moonlighting security at other events around Kirkwall, he barely has enough time to sleep. It doesn't help that his dreams are bloody visions of all the people he's failed to protect in his life, and the guilt hangs heavy around his neck. </p><p>His life is full and he can't protect everyone. So he tries his best to not let The Hanged Man's newest regular patron squirm his green-eyed way into Hawke's heart... and fails. Surely he can make room for one more person. What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Be advised: this is not a canon retelling. There will be definite elements of canon timeline and story, but I've grabbed and twisted it to suit this universe. Tags and warnings will be added and changed as the story progresses. Rating is in anticipation of future events and is also liable to change.
> 
> Please enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ah! well a-day! what evil looks  
> Had I from old and young!  
> Instead of the cross, the Albatross  
> About my neck was hung."  
> \- Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part II

It’s a slow night at The Hanged Man: the only patrons dotted around the space are mostly regulars, no one is ordering much, and even Isabela, behind the bar, has gotten bored enough to start halfheartedly swabbing at the bar top with a wet rag. Hawke leans against the end of the bar farthest from the door but with a good view of the whole floor. His fingers, dark, long, and blunt, toy absently with the rim of his cover-glass, a drink that looks alcoholic but isn’t. He’s working tonight.

Not that he’s _done_ much tonight, as it’s a Tuesday and nothing really happens on Tuesdays. It’s the worst way to earn his pay, he’s decided, just standing at the bar, occasionally chatting with Isabela when she tops up his drink. He keeps his dark eyes on a swivel, alert for signs of trouble, but he’s resigned himself to a few more hours of nothing when his ears pick up the first hints of something farther down the bar.

“It’s a compliment! Fuck, can’t you take a compliment?” Hawke doesn’t hear the reply and he can’t really see the other person either; the speaker is between them, gesticulating widely in a manner that suggests two too many drinks. “Can’t buy anyone a drink these days, can’t compliment them, what can you do? Hey!” A clatter, and Hawke sees a phone fall to the ground. His eyes narrow and he pushes off the bar.

“I was talking to you! I swear, you’re all rude these days, texting and facebooking instead of having real human interaction. You should be grateful! Guy like you probably doesn’t get many offers like mine.” And then Hawke is there, hand fisted in the back of the speaker’s shirt, hauling him back from the other man at the bar. His timing is impeccable, always is: he’d caught the man as he lunged forward, trying to kiss the one he’d been talking to. With a sigh he recognizes the man.

“Samson. We talked about this,” he growls as he drags him through the bar to the door. “I believe I said ‘Don’t.’”

“But—”

“No.” Hawke wrenches the door open and shoves Samson through, watching as he stumbles on the stone paving outside. “You’re banned.”

“What? You’re being unreasonable!”

With the look of those desperately trying to hold on to a shred of patience, Hawke places two fingers at his temple and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the brown is sharp and cold and terrible. “If I have to throw you out twice for the same offence, you don’t get another chance. You come back again and I’ll break something and be legally justified in doing so.”

He closes the door in Samson’s gaping face and stalks back to the bar. The man of Samson’s advances has picked his phone off the floor and is wiping it on his shirt when Hawke stops a few feet away. He’s small, well, smaller than Hawke but so are many people, but willowy in a way that hints at a concealed strength. His hair is white as are the tattoos on his chin and neck, stark against the brown of his skin. He doesn’t appear fazed by the last minute’s activities, but Hawke asks anyway.

“OK?”

Green eyes meet his. “I could have handled him.” 

The voice is lower than he expects, but Hawke just raises one eyebrow and shrugs. “Maybe, but I get paid to.” He turns to Isabela, who’d drifted inconspicuously closer as she cleaned glasses. “Samson’s banned. Call me if he tries to come back.” 

“Sure, sweet thing.”

Glancing back at the white-haired man, he says, “The Stone.”

“Hmm?” Green Eyes looks up from his phone.

“If someone hits on you and you want them to stop. Order The Stone.” Hawke taps his ear where a small earpiece sits. “Bartender knows to call security.”

The green eyes blink twice, slowly, then the man nods once and returns to his phone.

Hawke returns to his spot and his sweeps, sipping his drink. The rest of the night passes slowly, and the white-haired man disappears when Hawke takes a quick minute in the restroom.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Hawke thrashes awake at 9:00 am and groans. He rolls over and gets a face full of dog tongue. No way to go back to sleep now as the bed starts shaking with the giant canine’s excited tail-stump wagging. He swings his legs over the side, rubbing one hand over his face and the other over the dog’s head.

Varric had wanted his report about Samson when the bar closed at 2:00 am. He’d accepted Hawke’s judgment as he always did but made Hawke fill out all the forms the bar kept on banned patrons to let him know he wasn’t thrilled about it. Hawke had banned no small number of people from the bar, and Varric had, on more than one occasion, suggested that Hawke had too short a fuse, had worried that banning so many people would result in slumping sales. It hadn’t, as it turned out. The Hanged Man had developed a quiet reputation as a safe bar among some of the city’s residents, and Isabela reported that she’d heard of an increasing number of first dates taking place there because of it. So Varric had let it go, as much as he was capable of doing such a thing, but he still made Hawke fill out the paperwork whenever it happened.

They’d all left the bar at 3:30; Hawke got home around 4:00.

Waking up at 9:00 is murder but not unexpected. He makes coffee and feeds the dog, drinking quietly and leaning against a counter in the kitchen, watching the hound eat. They walk down the street afterward and jog three times around the park there, Hawke stopping every 50 or so yards for a set of exercises, push ups, squats, sit ups, pull ups at a playground. 

He checks his schedule on his phone when they get back to the apartment, showers, changes, and heads out the door. Wednesdays and Saturdays he moonlights (sunlights?) as security for Kirkwall’s largest farmers’ market. It’s generally boring, but organic produce brings in a lot of money and the paycheck is good. He stands or walks, arms crossed, in very visible sections of the market, scowling. He’s been told he’s very intimidating, even if he is wearing a neon yellow shirt with SECURITY emblazoned in black front and back. It’s a good quality for his line of work.

He leaves at 4:00 pm after all the farmers have packed up their tents and driven off the repurposed parking lot. The dog gets fed again when he returns home to feed himself before showing up at The Hanged Man at 6:00 pm, coffee from a shop around the corner in hand. The Hanged Man has coffee, they use it for some drinks, but it tastes like shit if it’s not covered with alcohol and Hawke has better taste than that. 

He ghosts in and out of the main floor, wandering between booths and tables before slipping to the back office to read for a few minutes. Varric had left an updated employee manual on the table with a sticky note on the cover that read “esp 4 hawke.” Hawke can only handle a page at a time before he has to go do something else, and he spends the first few hours of the night alternating between reading the manual, knowing that Varric is trying to instill a little more respect in him and resenting it, and prowling the bar floor.

He abandons the reading effort as a lost cause by 10:00 and picks up his regular spot at the bar, half watching Isabela and their other bartender, Zevran, as they flirt outrageously with each other and all the patrons seated at the bar. Isabela brings his drink with a wink and returns to leaning bustily over the bar at a shy and blushing young woman and her friends.

Around 11:00 the door opens and the white-haired man enters, seats himself at the bar six stools away from Hawke, and orders wine. His green eyes meet Hawke’s brown and he raises the wine glass in a silent salute before turning away.

He leaves before midnight after a single glass.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke is hopeless and Zevran is helpful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a good chunk of this story already written, so updates should come fairly frequently!

Green Eyes comes in around the same time the rest of the week, sitting near Hawke’s spot and ordering a single glass of wine. Thursday, Hawke nods at him in greeting from the bar. Friday, Hawke is busy ejecting a couple of frat brothers who got too drunk and started breaking their glasses purposefully a la Thor and doesn’t notice him come in. He makes sure no one nearby got hurt and cleans the mess up, sweeping the glass and mopping the floor. He’s done in time to catch Green Eyes look at him and nod as he heads for the door. Saturday, Hawke is smothering a yawn, eyes scrunched closed, mouth on the back of his wrist, when a glass thumps onto the wood next to him. His eyes snap open wide then narrow at Green Eyes’ face, the cup he just set down, and back up.

“From,” Green Eyes says and jerks his chin at Isabela who waggles her fingers at Hawke, grinning.

It’s coffee.

Hawke groans. “Fuck,” he mutters and grabs the cup, sipping gingerly. “You could have put something in it!” he yells down the bar at Isabela, who hasn’t lost her grin.

“Didn’t know what you like, sweet thing,” she yells back and throws two sugar packets at him. Good enough. He empties those into the cup and leans over the bar to grab something to stir with. Stirring his coffee, he looks up to see Green Eyes watching him, looking amused, a small smile on his lips as he toys with the stem of his wine glass.

Hawke raises an eyebrow, sipping at his coffee again. Only marginally improved with the sugar but drinkable in a pinch. “Coffee’s shit,” he supplies when the other man doesn’t say anything.

They sit in silence for a while, Hawke drinking his shit coffee and watching the bar, Green Eyes drinking his wine and watching his phone and, occasionally, Hawke. When Hawke spends too long staring at one point in space, his eyes unfocusing, Green Eyes clears his throat loudly. Hawke looks at him, blinking, and the man points towards Hawke’s coffee. Hawke lifts the cup and drinks before he’s aware of deciding to.

“Long day?” Green Eyes asks. Hawke shrugs.

“Long week. Long month.” Hawke hadn’t been sleeping well for most of the month, waking between 7:00 and 9:00 am after getting in around 3:00 am, on a good day, from The Hanged Man. There were days he just couldn’t sleep at all, just drifted in and out of plagued sleep for a couple hours until he decided to get up and go for a run or watch trash TV until it was time to get ready for a job. Meeran had, for the most part, kept him pretty busy for the last few years with security gigs when he wanted them, and when he didn’t have anything, his partner, Anso, sometimes did. These days, Hawke worked, exercised, and slept, with the sleep part happening more and more rarely. 

Every so often, unpredictably, he’d have a rash of nightmares, generally centering around Carver and Wesley’s deaths six years ago but morphing, evolving, preying on the fear he kept locked up, the fear that he couldn’t protect anyone else he cared for from falling brutally. The dreams were visceral, bloody things, unsettling even in the light of day, and he didn’t appreciate the lingering sense of guilt they left behind, either. He’d worked for years to overcome that.

“Hmm,” from Green Eyes. Then, “Have you tried yoga?”

Hawke’s eyebrows climb slowly to his hairline and he stares at Green Eyes for a minute before realizing that…

“You’re fucking with me.”

Green Eyes chuckles, the sound deep in his chest. “Yes,” he admits, smiling.

“God if I had a dollar for every time someone said that…”

“You’d be rich?”

“Nah, just able to afford a lot more beer.”

Green Eyes laughs again. “Me too.”

Hawke smiles a little at that, then waves over Isabela, regretfully, to request a fill up on the coffee and a few more sugar packets.

Green Eyes stays until nearly 1:00 am, talking occasionally with Hawke and reminding him to keep drinking the coffee. When he leaves, he flags Isabela and speaks with her at the other end of bar. She frowns, glances toward Hawke, and nods. Green Eyes lifts a hand in farewell to Hawke before opening the door.

“All right, sweet thing. Go home,” Isabela says, picking up Hawke’s coffee cup.

“Not 2:00 yet.”

“Sten can cover for you for an hour, sweetheart. You’re exhausted and need some sleep. Now scoot.” Hawke fixes Isabela with one of his withering stares, and it’s a testament to how tired he must be that she doesn’t back down from it. 

“Fine. Call me if something happens. Sten’s rubbish at working the floor and you know it.”

Isabela promises, crossing her heart, and Hawke doesn’t believe her. He does grab his jacket from the back office and go home, though.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Hawke doesn’t work The Hanged Man Sunday or Monday, his weekend, but wonders if Green Eyes came to the bar anyway. He does work a concert Sunday and some rich person’s private gala Monday, though. He never did understand the concept of _not_ working. The gala at least had decent food he was encouraged to eat when he took a short break.

Overall his sleep hasn’t improved much the last few days, though he did pass out for a solid eight hours after leaving the bar early Saturday night (or Sunday morning). That counts as a win, even though Sunday and Monday night don’t cooperate the same way. He’s at least more alert on Tuesday when he reaches The Hanged Man. He’s also checked the closing time for the coffee joint around the corner, Redcliffe Coffee, and will consider outsourcing his caffeine tonight if it turns out he needs more. The large cup in his hand is currently full of as much espresso as the barista felt comfortable giving him, she said in heavily accented English, to avoid a lawsuit due to the potential for cardiac arrest.

He reheats his coffee in the staff microwave a few times during the night, somewhat relieved that he won’t have to go back to Redcliffe for more. It’s ungodly the amount they can charge for what he needs.

Green Eyes appears around 11:00, smiles to see Hawke at the end of the bar, and sits six stools away again. Hawke toasts him with the coffee cup, and Green Eyes raises his wine glass in return. Something inside Hawke feels disappointed that the other man isn’t next to him as he had been Saturday but, he reasons, tonight Isabela didn’t need to send him over with coffee. It makes sense.

This Tuesday is nearly as slow as the last one, and he spends more and more of his time not looking out at the bar floor but studying the white-haired man in profile. From this angle, he can’t see the tattoos on his chin, but there are lines branching out down his neck, and Hawke wonders just how painful those were to get. They’re graceful, beautiful, but something about their placement makes him a little sad. 

The ears, sticking out from behind the white hair, are a little long, and his nose looks—not squished, but not long enough for his face. Small. Not that it’s a bad nose, Hawke muses, placing his chin on his hand. The hands curving around his phone and tapping out messages are...average, Hawke decides. Not long, not short, not thin, not large. They just are, except that the backs are tattooed and—Hawke’s eyes narrow—the palms are tattooed too, lines straight down each of his fingers toward his wrists where thick cuffs circle each arm. Just how tattooed is this man? His eyes wander over everything of him he can see, searching for more white lines, but there is clothing everywhere, long sleeves, long pants, boots to his mid-calves.

About to tear his gaze away and go back to his _job_ , Hawke looks up and sees the man smirking, honest-to-god _smirking_ , one eyebrow raised as he side-eyes Hawke. Caught red-handed (or eyed), he can do nothing but stare for long moments. 

Eventually he coughs, takes a drink of (cold) coffee, and abruptly looks away and out toward the rest of the bar. He hears a snort of laughter from six seats away and resolutely ignores it, scanning the sparsely filled tables instead.

“His name is Fenris,” Isabela says later, as they’re cleaning the bar.

“What?”

“You know, white hair, green eyes. The one you were eye-fucking earlier.”

Hawke growls, low in his throat. 

“Oh, come on, sweetheart. It’s the only applicable word for what you were doing. And he was doing it back,” she adds after a pause.

“Give it up, Isabela.”

“Give what up?” She sounds innocent enough and for a second Hawke considers letting her get away with it. Just a second.

“I don’t need you meddling in my life, Iz,” he says sharply, pausing his sweeping to glare at her. “I get enough of that from my goddamn mother and sister; I don’t need it from my friends.”

“Hun, from what I’ve seen, you don’t _have_ much of a life to meddle in.” She says it softly, and Hawke clenches his jaw and doesn’t respond, just sweeps in angry little strokes. Still, at the end of the night as they both exit and lock up, Hawke places a gentle hand on Isabela’s arm and tells her to text him when she gets home.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Hawke “sleeps,” wakes, feeds and walks the dog, works, feeds the dog, works. He studiously avoids looking at Green Eyes—Fenris—except for a nod in greeting until Saturday. Saturday when Zevran starts chatting. Normally Hawke doesn’t pay Zevran any mind when he starts prattling to customers, but since it’s Green Eyes—Fenris—he tunes in.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to look at Gr—Fenris all week. It wasn’t, really, because Isabela had needled him about it. It wasn’t a lot of things.

It was that he didn’t have a place for anyone in his life.

He had enough friends, he still had some family left, he had his dog. He worked. And he barely had any free time to himself, something his mother frequently complained at him about when she called and left voicemails. Even his sister had made more pointed remarks about his absence in recent months. He couldn’t juggle everything he already had, much less add anything or anyone else.

And he didn’t do casual sex. Well. He did, he just didn’t have time for it anymore. 

“Good evening and welcome back, Fenris,” Zevran was saying, pulling a wine glass from the rack before Fenris finishes crossing the floor to the bar.

“You… know my name?”

“But of course. We always sneak a peek at the names on cards we see so very often. It helps to ingratiate ourselves with lovely persons, such as yourself.” Hawke isn’t watching, but the pause in speech is one he knows well: Zevran has turned on his award-winning, ever-charming smile. It gets good tips.

Fenris chuckles. “And do I get to know your name?” he asks.

“Naturally! I am Zevran, your humble purveyor of drinks both fair and foul.”

Hawke sips at his drink...

“And this brooding specimen is our very own Hawke.”

...And nearly chokes on it.

“Hawk?” Fenris asks.

“ _Hawke_ ,” Zevran corrects. “The little e on the end makes all the difference, you see.”

Fenris nods, like he understands, and Hawke turns from his view of the floor to glare at Zevran who, to his great credit, does not quail under the gaze but rather shrugs and uncorks a bottle of wine with great flourish. Hawks hmphs out a breath, nods in acknowledgment of the introduction, such as it was, and pushes off the bar to break up what looks to be a fight brewing in the back corner. He hears Fenris and Zevran talking as he leaves.

Thirty minutes later, fight averted and birthday party saved (Hawke is now the drunk birthday girl’s hero), he’s back at the bar. Fenris and Zevran have fallen silent, or, at least, Fenris is silent. Zevran is chatting at another group of people farther down the bar. Out of the corner of his eye, Hawke sees Fenris get up and wonders if it’s midnight already. He checks his watch, not quite, and looks up to see Fenris one stool away, holding out a glass.

“Zevran said this was your drink,” he rumbles quietly at Hawke’s questioning look.

Hawke glances at his current glass, notes that it is still nearly ¾ full, and shakes his head. Isabela must have said something to him. Thick as thieves, those two.

“Ah. My apologies.” Fenris turns, takes a step away.

“Wait. Fenris.” He pauses, Fenris pauses. “It, ah, it is. My drink.” He shoves his glass farther behind himself, reaching for the one Fenris hands him. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure. May I?” Fenris gestures to the stool, and Hawke nods.

“Sure.”

There is only one empty stool between them as Fenris settles down, but it doesn’t feel like a lot of distance. Hawke is already angled that direction, the better to watch everything, and he feels suddenly a little claustrophobic. What a novel and completely unwelcome feeling.

“Better week?”

Hawke looks at Fenris, surprised, searching his face for a minute, looking for his motive. He can’t find it. Fenris’s face is open and calm, curious, and seemingly sincere.

“Not really.”

“Mm. You didn’t try the yoga, did you?”

Hawke snorts. “I believe you owe me a cheap $2 beer, now.”

“Are you free tomorrow?”

“What?” Hawke’s hand, halfway to his mouth with his drink, pauses.

“For beer.”

“Uh…” Hawke can feel his brain short circuit and he blinks stupidly for a minute, trying to remember if he’s working, then trying to remember why he had been avoiding Fenris during the week. “I can check.” He grabs his phone out of his pocket, scrolling through his calendar. Sunday is packed, another concert. It’s that time of year. Monday though… Monday he has nothing in his schedule, and he hasn’t been looking forward to that. Meeran and Anso insist that they have nothing to send his way, but he suspects them of lying, of trying to get him to take a day off. He hates it.

“Busy tomorrow,” he says. Opens his mouth to suggest Monday and shuts it. No room, remember?

“Working?” Fenris inquires. Not prying, simply curious.

“Mm,” he affirms. “Not here. I’ve got…” he twirls one hand. “Another thing.”

“Fair enough. Monday?”

Hawke’s breath freezes in his chest. He doesn’t lie, he just doesn’t. His mother hates it because he’ll tell her exactly what he thinks when they argue. When she blames him for his brother’s death. When she questions his life choices. His friends aren’t fond of it either, but they bounce back easier and faster than his mother. She’d gone half a year without talking to him after their last argument about Carver. In fact, she had only started talking to him again two months ago. He still isn’t sure how he feels about that turn of events.

But this, this is a situation where he considers lying. He can see Fenris’s face change, go from open to guarded, preparing for Hawke’s letdown. And he can’t. He can’t lie.

“Jack shit Monday.” Hawke watches the line of tension ease between Fenris’s eyebrows and is glad. He likes Fenris, or he thinks he does, and even though he knows it’s a bad idea, knows he doesn’t have room for another person in his life, he thinks he might be able to bend that certainty. 

“Would you like to meet here?”

“And see these assholes on my day off? No thanks.”

“How about the Brecilian Brewery? Newer, but I hear they’re alright.”

“Over there on the east side of town?” Hawke questions. Fenris nods and Hawke considers it. He doesn’t go out much, working at a bar five days of the week kind of puts a cramp in his desire to go out himself, but he does keep up on the competition and Brecilian had seen some pretty high compliments in the last trade magazine Varric had bought then thrown on the table in disgust.

“Yeah, alright. Just don’t tell that nutjob,” he motions to Zevran. “Or Iz,” he says after a moment of thought. Fenris looks confused and Hawke quickly adds, “competition.” That and Isabela would never shut up if she knew he was spending time with Fenris outside The Hanged Man. 

Fenris nods sagely. “I’ll see you then. Eight?”

“That works.”

Then, smiling faintly, Fenris is gone, back to Zevran to settle his tab. Hawke lifts his glass to his lips and raises two fingers at Fenris as he leaves the bar. 

Shit.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fenris and Hawke attempt to have a beer like civilized people

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for your comments and kudos! I'm glad you're here. This is gonna be fun *grin*
> 
> For reference, [this](http://steamcommunity.com/sharedfiles/filedetails/?id=719260404) is the Hawke I based Albatross!Hawke on, in terms of look and partly personality. He's just the best, look at him.

Hawke walks slowly Monday evening, all but dragging his feet. This was a mistake and he knew it. There was just no way to call off a date? meeting? hang time? with an admittedly handsome man when you had _no way to call_. Fenris hadn’t given him a number, and Hawke hadn’t thought about it until collapsing into bed Sunday night/Monday morning. He’d considered not showing, but as Fenris knew where he worked and seemed cozy enough with the bartenders, he’d dismissed that as a worse idea than going. He didn’t have to stay long, he reasoned. Just long enough to drink a beer and claim he wasn’t feeling well. 

Rounding the corner at 8:10 pm, late but not so late that Fenris may have given up, Hawke sees him, leaning casually against the building, legs crossed, nose in his phone. He slows more, letting himself, just for a moment, marvel at the way the fading daylight catches in the white hair, glints dully off the tattoos. Fenris looks ethereal, dangerous, like he could rip a man’s chest open with his bare hands. And then he looks up, catches a glimpse of Hawke, and one corner of his mouth turns up in a smile. 

Hawke is screwed. He’s let this man smile at him one too many times without taking him to bed and dumping him after, and now that smile is starting to burrow into Hawke’s heart, into a place where it will hurt when Hawke eventually rips it away.

He raises a hand in greeting and plasters what he hopes looks like a passable imitation of a smile on his face. One beer, go home. One beer, go home. He stumbles over his mantra as the distance closes and he gets a better look at what Fenris is wearing. Black skinny jeans tucked into black boots, a brown v-neck with the cord of some necklace tucked inside, and dark leather cuffs at his wrists. It’s a simple ensemble but it works for Hawke on a level he hadn’t previously been aware of.

Screwed.

Boned.

Up shit creek. No paddle.

Hawke knows if he’s smart he won’t even walk into that bar. _One beer, go home_ sounds more and more implausible the longer he tries to keep it chanting in his head. It’s been a running theme with Hawke that if he spends enough time with a person without taking them to bed or expressing disinterest, he ends up saddled with another friend. It just...happens. A couple hours with Fenris over beer, talking about who knows what, is more than enough time for Fenris to fall into that “accidental friend” category. And yet…

“Shall we?” Fenris asks. “It is my belief that happy hour has not ended yet and I should be able to find you something passable for $2.” His eyes crinkle in amusement, and he gestures at the door.

Ignoring all the sensible parts of his brain screaming at him to turn back and go home, Hawke grabs the door handle and opens it. “After you,” he says, bowing slightly, and they enter the bar.

The Brecilian Brewery is a feat of modern green architecture, Hawke discovers as he follows Fenris toward a table near the bar. Literally green. Fake trees (though Hawke has to touch one to be sure) sprout from the floor in several places toward the edges of the room, two of them climbing to pierce the ceiling, one of them chopped off at table height with a set of barstools clustered around it. The light fixtures resemble tree branches, and the bulbs in them give off a soft glow that reminds him of candlelight. Each table is repurposed wood, sealed with clear resin. The glasses, when they receive their drinks, are etched with drawings of different kinds of trees: his beer comes in an aspen glass, Fenris’s in an oak.

True to Fenris’s word, Brecilian’s happy hour has a few beers on special that sound decent. Hawke settles on the weiss, believing a brewery’s chops can be shown if they produce a good white. Though he works in a bar, he isn’t the biggest beer drinker; he has a few kinds he knows he enjoys but will always start with the white, if a place has one. Should it pass muster, he’ll usually order another beer or two off the menu. He’s left a fair few establishments after a lackluster first showing, however.

They spend the time between ordering and getting their drinks chatting easily. Hawke relates an incident at the concert the previous day where he’d chased and tackled a concertgoer who had tried to steal the setlist and one of the guitars from the stage before the band came on. Fenris laughs, throwing his head back in genuine mirth, and Hawke finds himself mesmerized by the sound and resolving to hear it again soon before the evening is over. In for a penny, in for a pound, right? Fenris tells a story of one of his client’s assumptions that Fenris was capable of “erasing the internet” so the client’s history there would be removed.

“So what is it you do, exactly?” Hawke asks after their drinks arrive, spinning his glass on the table.

“Reputation management. I help rich people remove all the dirty secrets the internet has collected on them.”

“Just rich people?”

Fenris chuckles. “Thankfully no. We provide many services for all kinds of people, though it does seem as though rich people are the most eager to hide traces of their past misdeeds.” Hawke watches as something dark passes across Fenris’s face before being pushed away.

“Well, when you have all that money at your disposal,” Hawke ponders, “I imagine it is remarkable what sort of trouble you can get yourself into. The rest of us just have to content ourselves with the unremarkable sort of trouble.”

“Yes, more’s the pity,” Fenris comments drily, and Hawke raises his glass in a toast. They clink glasses and drink in silence for a moment, the quiet of the bar broken only by the out-of-place sound of the nightly news playing on a flat screen TV behind the bar.

Setting his glass down, Hawke opens his mouth to ask Fenris another question when his ears pick out a few words on the news that distract him completely.

“—the Templar gang, suspected to be at the heart of a brutal attack earlier today, killing one person and wounding several more. Victims have been taken to Circle Mercy Hospital where one is in critical condition after being stabbed multiple times in the chest…”

Ice runs through Hawke’s veins. “Turn that shit off!” he yells at the bartender, half-standing out of his chair. “We don’t wanna hear it!”

The bartender, an ugly man in Hawke’s estimation, with thick, unkempt ginger muttonchops, snorts derisively. “Tough shit, princess. ‘Tender’s choice, so it’s sticking.”

“Support the Templars, do you?” Hawke sneers. “Cowardly common street thugs. You’d fit in well, if they didn’t kill you first.” There are only a few other tables and barstools filled, most of the patrons glancing away from Hawke, embarrassed by proximity. “Fuck you. And your bar’s shit.”

“Hawke,” Fenris says, reaching out a hand that doesn’t quite touch Hawke’s arm. “It’s OK. It’s just the news.”

Hawke wrenches his arm away as if Fenris had actually laid his hand on him. “No, it’s fucking _not OK_ ,” he spits, turning wide, angry eyes on the other man. He glances at his beer, sitting half-drunk on the table. And it was a decent white, too. “I have to go.”

He makes it four steps out of the door, stepping off the curb to stand on the side of the street, and screams, kicking back with the heel of one boot-clad foot to hit the curb. It hurts and serves to ground him a little, so he kicks back with the other foot with a little less vigor, alternating feet for a few moments as he breathes and does his level best to ignore the people on the other side of the road who stare at him strangely after his outburst.

“Hawke?” He turns, sees Fenris standing uncertainly on the sidewalk between him and the brewery.

“I wish I smoked,” Hawke responds, huffing out a breath. “Seems like a more passive-aggressive self-destructive method of coping but…” He gestures at his feet and laughs shortly. “I’m sorry, Fenris, I—”

“Are you OK with touch?”

Hawke turns fully to face Fenris, ceasing the abuse on his feet. “Come again?” he asks, head tilting.

“Touch,” Fenris repeats. “People touching you. There is a park around the corner, and I have been told I give excellent massages.”

 _Worst idea ever_ , Hawke’s mind tells him. “Lead on,” he says instead.

Five minutes later they’re installed on a park bench, Hawke with his feet on the ground at the edge, Fenris curled up behind him. As Fenris pushes into his shoulder muscles with thumbs, fingers, and knuckles, Hawke groans and bends forward, placing his forearms on his thighs and hanging his head. He hasn’t had a massage, of any kind, in a while, and Fenris is finding each of his knots with unerring accuracy. 

“I fucking hate the Templars,” he sighs. Fenris’s fingers still for a moment then resume, as if to pretend Fenris hadn’t actually heard that. Hawke isn’t sure what prompts him to keep speaking, but with Fenris’s presence behind him, he feels secure somehow.

“We moved here six years ago, my family and I. My dad had died a few years before that, and mom had family here so here is where we came. Turns out family is worth shit to some people. We lived with my asshole uncle for a while, scraping by on odd jobs and indebting myself to some colorful characters. Carver, he never liked being my little brother, always thought I cast too big a shadow and he couldn’t get out from behind it. He helped me work some jobs at first, then started to go off on his own more and more.”

Hawke grunts as Fenris hits a particularly stubborn knot in his lower back. “He, uh, turns out he was working with the Templars. Brought in some good money for a while and we were nearly able to move out of my uncle’s place. We were almost there.” He falls silent for a minute, Fenris’s fingers still massaging into his back evenly.

“I got suspicious about where the money was coming from eventually. Followed him to one of his meets. They were going to induct him as a full member then, a reward for the service he’d done for them. They… I imagine it’s some sort of elaborate hazing ritual. Eight of them circled around him, shoving him between them, ripping his clothes, beating him. I don’t know how far it would actually have gone if the police hadn’t intervened.”

Fenris sucks in a soft breath, and Hawke snorts a wry laugh through his nose. “Yeah. An officer, Wesley Vallen, saw what was happening and tried to stop it. They knifed him and left him to bleed out. Carver they must have decided was too much of a liability then. All eight of them stabbed him, didn’t stop until they were sure he was dead.

“I watched the whole thing.”

The sun had finished setting as Hawke spoke, and they now sat in the gathering darkness, Fenris’s hands moving across Hawke’s back in soothing circles.

“This is why you have trouble sleeping?”

“Sometimes.” Hawke shrugs and stands from the bench, turning half around so he can see Fenris, still folded on the bench. “Whoever said you give excellent massages is spot on,” he says, changing the subject.

Fenris smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Drink plenty of water,” he responds lightly.

“Yes, masseur.” Hawke jerks a thumb over his shoulder and says, “I should go. High time the dog was fed.” It’s a lie; he isn’t usually home at this time of day, and the dog isn’t due to be fed until 3:00 am. He jams his hands in his pockets, stares at the ground for a minute, then looks back at Fenris. “Thank you.” And then he’s gone, walking back the way they came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be up Monday or Tuesday once I've moved my sister out of state this weekend.
> 
> Free hugs for life if you can tell me who I based the Brecilian's bartender on!


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke makes a realization

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter to tide over until Wednesday when Shit starts to happen.
> 
> Thank you all for your comments and kudos! They make me so happy and so excited to keep bringing this fic to you.

Hawke isn’t sure what to expect Tuesday night as he works The Hanged Man. He regrets spilling his guts to Fenris the night before, though the calm way the other man had accepted his confession was...unnerving but not unwelcome. It had been a while since he’d met anyone he considered worthy enough to share parts of his life with. He just wasn’t supposed to have shared with Fenris. Scowling at his drink, Hawke misses the door opening until the barstool one away from his is suddenly occupied.

Fenris nods at him in greeting when Hawke raises his eyes and calmly lifts a hand to flag down Isabela to order a drink. 

Hawke supposes this was not outside the realm of possibility. Possibility: Fenris was so off put by Hawke’s story and departure that he decided Hawke wasn’t worth the trouble and wouldn’t be back to the Hanged Man. Possibility: Fenris was some sort of masochist for rude people and would stay around for a while no matter that. Possibility: Fenris wasn’t fazed, somehow, by Hawke’s story or leaving and thought Hawke was, somehow, still worth befriending.

If he were being honest with himself, he’d hoped Fenris would continue to come in. Though he did prefer the third possibility to the second, the second would end up being easier all around later. Monday night, after leaving Fenris at the park, Hawke had come to the conclusion that, though he enjoyed Fenris’s company, and massage, he would eventually need to cut him out of his life. Just...not yet. Some part of him knew that allowing himself to keep a relationship with the other man would most likely end, not in a severing of ties, but a strengthening. Hawke resolutely ignored that part of his mind.

 ** _I have enough people to protect_** , he’d told his sister that night. She’d texted earlier, while he and Fenris had been at Brecilian, and had evidently still been awake when he texted back on his way home.

 ** _Who says you need to protect him?_** she’d responded. 

H: **_Not the point._**

B: **_What’s the point then?_**

H: **_My care capacity is maxed. Something else will give if I add this guy to the roster._**

B: **_Like your schedule? That’s not a bad thing you know_**

H: **_My schedule is fine. Shouldn’t you be in bed little girl?_**

B: **_Fine, whatever. Love you_**

H: **_You too._**

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Over the next few days and weeks, Hawke fell into an easy routine with Fenris. Fenris would drop by The Hanged Man around 11:00 pm on nights that Hawke worked, order a drink, and sit near him. Most days Hawke had some free time as he kept an eye on the bar, and they exchanged what Fenris eventually dubbed “war stories,” accounts of their separate adventures with their jobs. Hawke would describe particularly interesting patrons of The Hanged Man that Fenris hadn’t seen or regale him with the events of another job where something actually interesting had happened. Fenris in turn would tell him about clients with no idea of how the internet worked, who tried to e-mail him through their browser’s search bar, and couldn’t wrap their minds around the concept that erasing someone’s tracks through the web took more work than pressing a button and was thus worth more than they wanted to pay.

On the days that Hawke wasn’t able to sit with Fenris due to work functions like ejecting too-drunk patrons, settling fights that broke out, or, one day, covering the front door as well as the floor while Sten was absent, Fenris simply chatted with Zevran or Isabela or sat quietly with his phone. 

“You’re going to keep him, right?” Isabela asks one Saturday after Fenris left after his customary single drink.

Hawke looks up at her, narrowing his eyes.

“Because if you aren’t going to, I will. He looks positively _bendy_ and _someone_ needs to take advantage of that. Look here, you,” she says, jabbing a finger Hawke’s direction as he glares at her. “It’s not fair to anyone if you claim you have no intentions then refuse to let anyone else have a go. In fact, it’s downright rude. I mean, have you seen those tattoos? I bet they go all the way down, and I intend to find out. One way or another.”

Hawke doesn’t say anything because there isn’t anything _to_ say. Isabela is, infuriatingly, correct. Fenris is free to choose with whom he associates, Hawke has made no advances as such, and Fenris seems to enjoy Isabela’s company. He may even agree to an affair with her, and it wouldn’t be Hawke’s place to say a word against it. 

But he wants it to be. Maker help him, but he’s jealous, jealous! when he imagines Fenris with Isabela. He groans and lets his head hit the bar top. Isabela pats his hair. “There you go, sweet thing. I knew you’d get there.”


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke receives some news

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said this would be up Wednesday so here it is! (Even though I checked the posting schedule I made for myself and this wasn't due until tomorrow... Ah well, what are schedules for if not to be broken?)

The truly infuriating thing is that Hawke still does not have Fenris’s number. On top of that, he won’t see him for another two days. Hawke has never despised a weekend more. Though it moves by quickly enough, Meeran and Anso coming through for him with back-to-back assignments, Hawke’s mind is preoccupied the whole time, and he shows up to The Hanged Man on Tuesday with a deeply concerning amount of espresso in his Redcliffe cup. It does nothing to soothe what nerves he has, and he catches Isabela looking at him with a sad smile on her face more than once before 11:00 rolls around. 

Hawke raises a hand in greeting as Fenris walks through the door, then freezes in place as he holds the door open for the red-haired woman behind him. She’s wearing civvies, he hardly ever sees her like this, but he’d know her anywhere. Isabela’s eyes are wide when Hawke glances back at her and she makes shooing motions at him. _I got this_ , she mouths at him, still shooing. Hawke only catches Fenris’s confused gaze for a moment, long enough to hold up a “one minute” finger at him as he beelines for the table Aveline has chosen in the corner.

“Aveline,” he greets. If he sounds a little breathless, she doesn’t comment on it.

“Hawke.”

Isabela brings Hawke’s drink from the bar and a whiskey sour for Aveline before retreating. Hawke sits at the table, whumping into the chair perhaps a little heavier than normal, and waits for Aveline to speak first.

“You didn’t hear this from me,” she says, glancing around the bar and gripping her whiskey sour tightly. Hawke nods. “Donnic hasn’t reported in. It’s been three weeks.”

Hawke’s eyes go wide. “Three weeks? That’s—”

“It probably means he was involved in that attack, yes.” Aveline sounds like the words pain her as she speaks. They probably do. “And potentially injured as a result. Templars don’t let their own go to hospitals, and I can’t mount an official investigation without blowing his cover.”

Hawke lets out a slow breath. “You’re his handler. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

“Not to the brass, no.” The bitter tone creeping into her voice is one Hawke hears more and more these days. With her partner undercover in the Templars for the last half year and the powers that be at the station unwilling to divert more resources her way, Aveline has been slowly, quietly spiralling. Hawke isn’t sure how long until she breaks. Aveline is the strongest person he’s ever met, but even she has to hit her limit eventually.

“Isn’t there anything that can be done?”

Aveline appraises Hawke, folding her hands on the table. “If we had the resources and support, I could search the free clinics and illegal pharmacies that operate out in the Gallows and Darktown. I could canvas with plainclothes officers. But you know as well as I do that I’ll never get clearance to do that.”

Hawke nods, taking a sip of his drink. “You’re right, Ave. I just wish there were something you could do.”

“So do I, Hawke, so do I. I hate sitting here, powerless. It’s not something I’m good at.”

“At least you’ve got booze now.” They crash their glasses together and Aveline chokes out a laugh.

They sit there for a while more, slowly drinking, talking sporadically. Finally Aveline gets up, claiming she needs to go home and sleep. Hawke can see the lie for what it is but knows she needs to hide behind it tonight, so he wishes her a good night and tells her to come back whenever she needs to. Isabela waves off her payment when Aveline approaches the bar, and Hawke sits at the table a little while longer, fingers steepled under his chin.

Aveline’s a good woman, one of the few people Hawke will admit to looking up to. He’s admired her for years, even before they had separately moved to Kirkwall. Aveline grew up with the Hawke children in Lothering, or, rather, grew up ahead of the Hawke children. She had a few years on Hawke and they were never close back then, but they were both scrappy kids, focused on protecting the younger and weaker. They saw each other not infrequently in principals’ offices as Hawke followed her through the school years.

Aveline left for Kirkwall University, and when Hawke graduated high school he applied to KU and Lothering Community College. He attended LCC, staying close to his family and keeping busy so he couldn’t regret the decision. They had reconnected after Carver’s death, brought together by mutual tragedy, and while Aveline mourned Wesley, Hawke cursed himself.

Isabela comes by the table later to collect Aveline’s empty glass. She clears her throat pointedly and jerks her head toward the bar. Hawke’s head snaps over to see Fenris with one foot off his stool, signing a receipt. He jerks up, scraping his chair on the floor, and makes his way over as quickly as he dares.

Fenris is pushing both copies of the receipt across the bar when Hawke stops next to him. “Wait a minute?” he asks, reaching for the customer copy and pen. He scribbles his number and hands the scrap of paper to Fenris who takes it, a faint smile on his face. “In case you’re interested in repeating the disaster a few weeks ago.”

“I am. Good night, Hawke.” 

Hawke watches Fenris leave, heart lodged somewhere between elation and despair. Isabela squeals, coming back behind the bar, and gives him two thumbs up. His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he pulls it out to find a new message from an unknown sender with the simple message **_Fenris._**

**_Good night_** , he sends back, feeling both incredibly foolish and incredibly warm.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke puts some things in motion and so does Fenris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My plan was to post this tomorrow, but this weekend is insanely busy as the SO and I are trying to paint our entire house before people come on Monday to replace the carpet. And (yay retail) I have to work most of the day today. So rejoice! And expect the next chapter on Tuesday.
> 
> Also of note: I have a tendency to create playlists for my favorite stupid people. So [here's one](https://open.spotify.com/user/itzasolstice/playlist/7tReO2XKyXXiyWGH2DRjf9) for this particular Fenhawke AU.

Hawke pulls open the door to the main branch of the Kirkwall Public Library at 11:40 am that Thursday and stalks to the back corner, the one that’s been decorated like an animated movie exploded there. Varric is installed in a small plastic chair that looks like it’s seen better days, telling a story to the fifteen or so under-five-year-old children scattered around in a shirt that should be scandalous on a man that hairy. Hawke wonders if Varric shouldn’t be reading out of a picture book and showing the kids the illustrations (and not wearing a v-neck), but since Varric has always been in a league of his own with storytelling, he supposes it works out. The librarians love him, somehow.

“The hero looked up, up, up,” Varric says, craning his own neck as he looks up at the ceiling, “but he couldn’t see the top of the tower. But being a brave, strong adventurer, he felt no fear. He grabbed at the stones of the tower and began to climb!” Varric mimes grasping and climbing.

Several of the children, disturbed when Hawke entered the storytelling ring, jump up and run over to him. “Tower!” one squeals, and, to Hawke’s great consternation, begins climbing, followed swiftly by the others. Children are, it seems, unaffected by Hawke’s appearance and demeanor, the ripped jeans and faded t-shirt, the resting bitch face. He can see some of the parents, though, who are appropriately cowed and intimidated. He scowls at them and a couple skitter forward to drag their children off his body, telling them to “leave the nice man alone.” 

“Climbing up, up, up,” Varric continues. Hawke can see the valiant effort the man is putting into not laughing and scowls at him too for good measure. “Until he finally reaches the top. And what is at the top of the tower?” he asks the children.

“The princess!” they scream.

“That’s right! The hero pulls himself through the window, fixes his armor and hair,” here Varric coifs his own short, short ponytail, and the children giggle, “and looks toward the bed where the princess should be lying.” He pauses, looks at each of the children in turn, even the ones still clinging to Hawke. “But the princess...isn’t there!”

Gasps from the children and some adults who are playing along for effect. Hawke groans audibly and slaps a hand to his face. This earns him some nasty looks that are hastily redirected when he glares at the look-givers. He wiggles his limbs, trying to shake loose the limpet-children, but this just makes them giggle and cling tighter. Hawke digs in his pocket for his phone, seeking a distraction as he leans against a half wall in hopes that a cessation of movement will bore the children enough that they let go.

The phone vibrates as he holds it, and he smiles to see he has a text from Fenris. **_I’m jealous_** , it says. **_When do I get to climb you like a tree?_** Hawke’s neck protests at the speed at which he whips his head around, searching for Fenris. He finds him standing at a self-checkout kiosk, and Fenris raises his phone in greeting, his other hand passing a book under the barcode scanner.

**_Tell me you’ll ask first_** , Hawke texts back, keeping an eye on Fenris as he types. **_These heathens have no concept of consent._**

He watches Fenris chuckle and load his books into the messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Rounding the kiosk, Fenris approaches Hawke and gingerly removes the small-human lumps attached to him. Hawke sighs in relief when they are all gone.

“I hate children.” Some of the closer parents look scandalized. Fenris just laughs quietly and leans against the half wall next to Hawke.

“The princess had asked her fairy godmother for one favor: if no hero came to rescue her by her eighteenth birthday, she would become a dragon. So you see,” Varric leans forward to the children and whispers loudly, “the princess _was_ the dragon! She and the prince became very good friends and spent their days flying around the kingdoms, solving problems for people and rescuing other princesses in other towers. The end!”

“I like it,” Fenris muses. “Captive turning into a dragon. I hope she roasted whoever put her there.” Hawke snorts and nods his agreement.

“Do you have a few minutes?” Hawke asks as the parents begin rounding up their children. “I need to talk to Varric for a bit.” 

Fenris looks at the watch embedded in one of the cuffs on his wrist and nods. “A few. I should be back to work soon, but the hours are flexible.”

“Hawke baby!” Varric greets, spreading his arms wide as Hawke walks over. “I just saw you this morning. Are you so overcome by my charm and good looks?”

“I need your help.” 

“Hello to you too,” Varric grumps good-naturedly. “With what, Hawke? I’ll assume it’s something you didn’t feel comfortable discussing at work or you wouldn’t be here. Though I think I need to get the library to put in a Hawke-sized tree here for climbing…”

Hawke’s eyes dart side to side, making sure all the parents had indeed left and that there was no one left in earshot. “Templars,” he says, lowering his voice to be on the safe side. Varric’s breath hisses in, and Hawke keeps talking before Varric can open his mouth to say no. “Ave’s partner is AWOL; we think he’s hurt. Brass won’t do anything about it, so I need you to. Just let me know if any of your people have heard anything, OK? That’s it.”

Varric sighs and shakes his head. “Alright, Hawke. But it might take a while if I’ve gotta do this quietly.”

“You’d better,” Hawke snaps. “If anyone gets tipped off…”

“Yeah, yeah. I got it. I’ll text you or something. Now get out of here. I gotta clean up.”

“...Thank you, Varric.” Varric scoffs half-heartedly at Hawke and pats his arm, turning to shuffle a few pictures books into a neat stack.

Hawke jerks his head at Fenris as he stalks out of the children’s section and heads out of the library. Fenris pushes off the wall smoothly and follows at Hawke’s heel until they clear the doors, then he’s suddenly in front, walking backwards to face Hawke.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he hisses, voice sharp and warning. Hawke meets green eyes with brown and smiles disarmingly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Though I thought we might go for lunch if you haven’t eaten yet.”

Fenris’s eyes narrow but he peels off to walk alongside Hawke. “Where?”

“Vincento’s. Little Italian place around the corner, good lunch specials. Fast.”

They walk in silence for the few blocks to the restaurant. Fenris checks a few things on his phone, taps out a few messages, and informs Hawke he has forty-five minutes until he should head back to work.

“What do you want to eat?” Hawke asks, pausing at the door. Fenris thinks then shrugs. “Do you trust me?”

Fenris looks long at Hawke, considering. “I suppose I can trust you with lunch,” he responds, smiling. Hawke returns the smile and gestures to the outside patio.

“Then grab a table. I’ll be right back out.”

When Hawke returns, Fenris is seated at the table farthest in the corner, wedged between the building and the wrought-iron of the fence surrounding the patio. His messenger bag leans against his chair legs, and Fenris is rolling the sleeves on his button-up. Hawke sits next to him, not across from him, reflexively picking the seat with the next best view of the surrounding area. He watches as the tattoos snaking up Fenris’s arms are slowly revealed to the elbow and looks away when Fenris catches his eye, pushing one of the two sandwiches toward him.

“Ham, salami, cheese, probably vegetables,” he says, opening his own wrapper. The sandwiches are identical; Hawke hadn’t wanted to use his brainpower on selecting more than one item, but he suspects Fenris won’t mind.

“They were an...art project,” Fenris says, lifting his arms after Hawke takes a massive bite of his sandwich. Grumbling behind a mouthful of bread and meat, all Hawke can do is point at Fenris and tilt his head. “No, not mine. My…” Here Fenris pauses, eyes darting from one side of the table to the other, before letting out a breath and staring through one of the holes in the metal mesh of the table. “My ex’s.”

Hawke grunts and swallows. “You don’t like them?”

“Sometimes,” Fenris allows, slowly unwrapping his own sandwich. “Though we have not seen each other for a long time, I imagine it pleases him to think of people appreciating his art.” He laughs, a short, ugly sound, and Hawke frowns at him. “He has not completed anything near as good in all the time we’ve been apart. I suppose that amuses me, in a way.”

Hawke hums and they fall into silence broken only by the crinkling of sandwich wrappers. He finishes first and leans back in his chair, hands behind his head, looking out at the street beyond the patio with unfocused eyes. Fenris folds his wrapper after eating the last of the sandwich and stares hard at the man next to him.

“What are you doing, Hawke?” The question comes out softly but Hawke jerks as if slapped. Fenris can see guilt, determination, frustration, and tempered rage fly across Hawke’s face until he schools it into a neutral enough mask. Fenris shakes his head. “Don’t lie to me, Hawke. I can see you.”

“Fuck you,” Hawke responds with no real heat. He hadn’t, truly, been about to lie to Fenris. Not exactly. Just tell him enough truth without revealing the whole truth. Fenris was enough of an unknown that Hawke didn’t want him anywhere near his plans because he couldn’t predict how it would turn out. 

“Dinner first.” Fenris raises an eyebrow at Hawke, crossing his arms and stretching his legs out, the picture of relaxed calm if Hawke couldn’t see the tension in his face and the set of his shoulders.

Hawke stares defiantly at Fenris for several long moments, crosses his own arms. “It’s better if you don’t know,” he says finally. That, at least, is completely true. For all that Hawke doesn’t want a monkey wrench in his plans, he also doesn’t want Fenris involved because he doesn’t want to think of the possibility of him getting hurt. Templars are ruthless.

“You don’t have to protect me, Hawke,” Fenris says. “I am capable of defending myself.”

“Yes, I do,” Hawke whispers, breaking his eyes away. “Anyway, it’s not like it involves you,” he says louder, harsher than intended. “It’s personal.”

“Yes,” Fenris deadpans, “a personal matter that involves at least you, Varric, Isabela, that policewoman, her missing partner, and the Templars. I have good ears, Hawke,” he says when Hawke narrows his eyes at him. 

“It’s not your business,” Hawke repeats, though his words hold none of their earlier fire. 

“I’d like it to be.” Fenris shrugs when Hawke looks at him and spreads his arms out to the sides. “I should have thought it obvious by now, Hawke. I like you.” He catches sight of his watch and reaches to grab his bag. “Unfortunately, I also have to go back to work now.”

“I’ll see you tonight?” Hawke says.

Fenris gives him a small smile as he stands. “Indeed.”

Hawke watches him leave and crumples the sandwich wrappers in his hands. Finally he pulls out his phone and texts Fenris.

H: **_I like you too.  
I’m still not telling._**

F: **_You are a frustrating man, Hawke._**

H: **_Let me buy you dinner sometime and I’ll show you just how frustrating I can be._**

F: **_I think I’d like that._**

H: **_You say that now._**

F: **_Hah. Go do something with yourself today. You’re obviously not working until tonight._**

H: **_How would you know?_**

F: **_I can see you, Hawke._**

H: **_Fine._**

Hawke takes his dog on a long walk then falls asleep in his armchair after he turns the TV on. He dreams: Fenris dripping blood, covered in leaking wounds, but grinning ferally; his mother, lying on a couch, and Bethany, crying because she can’t wake her up; Bethany screaming as a circle of Templars closes around her; Fenris again, crawling up toward him on his bed and licking his face thoroughly.

He pushes the dog off him as he wakes up, wiping his face of the dog’s slobber. “Thanks,” he mutters. The dog had woken him up in time for him to get to work, though Hawke knew the hound’s real motivation was the food Hawke put out as he left. Part of him would prefer to leave the dog with his mother and sister, but the last time he’d tried that the dog had ripped up one of his mother’s favorite rugs trying to get out of the house. Hawke wasn’t sure exactly how he felt about having one living being’s existence hang entirely on him, but the dog was good company and he did enjoy having him around most of the time.

The Hanged Man was beginning to get busier as university students started flooding back to the city for the fall semester. Normally Hawke didn’t mind the students, didn’t care that they were there or not, but this year it seemed the annoying ones came back first.

He’s thrown three people out for disrupting the bar by the time 11:00 rolls around and Fenris comes in, and his eye is on another group in the corner that is barely on the right side of his good graces.

“Have I mentioned I hate children?” he asks conversationally, eyes still across the bar, when Fenris takes his seat.

“They’re hardly children, Hawke,” Fenris chuckles.

“Younger than me. Children.”

“Old Man Hawke.”

Hawke snorts, waves his arms a little, and mutters, “Get off my lawn.”

Zevran laughs as he comes over to fill a glass of wine for Fenris. “My dear Hawke, as your elder I must insist you cease your flailing. You are liable to hurt yourself.”

“Bite me, Zev.”

“Only too eager, as you know.” Zevran winks at Hawke and returns to the other end of the bar to flirt with the kids there.

Fenris watches Zevran go then turns back to Hawke. “Dinner?”

“Don’t you keep a normal-person schedule?” Hawke asks. “I get off at 2:00.”

“I mean another day, at a more normal-person time,” Fenris replies, swatting the air near Hawke. “Before you go to work.”

“Fenris,” Hawke says carefully, shifting his focus solely to the other man. “You know it’s OK to touch me, right? Any time you want.” Fenris flushes a little and looks down, gripping the stem of his wineglass with thin fingers. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine, but you don’t have to—” He imitates the motion Fenris had made. 

“I am…not used to it,” Fenris tells his wineglass, “touching other people. My,” he gestures at one arm with the other, “ex did not allo—like it.”

“Jealous possessive bastard asshole, huh?”

Fenris smiles just a little at that, nodding. “Something like that.”

“I think I’d like to punch him,” Hawke muses. “A lot.” He looks at Fenris, tilting his head to one side and resting his cheek in one upturned palm. The other hand he lays on the bar top between them. “May I? Touch you, not punch him. I won’t ask permission for that; I’m just gonna do it.” That gets a little huff of a laugh from Fenris and he nods, slowly.

Hawke reaches his hand forward glacially, as though Fenris is an animal he’s trying not to spook. His fingers touch the back of Fenris’s hand, run down the white lines, and carefully pry the wineglass from him. Hawke rotates his hand, a graceful move for a man so big, so Fenris’s palm is flat against Hawke’s, their fingers pressed lightly together. Hawke marvels at how small Fenris’s hand looks inside his and smiles at him. Fenris smiles back, a wondering expression on his face.

_CRASH._

Hawke gently extracts his hand from Fenris’s and slowly stands from his barstool. “Sonovabitch’s gonna regret _that_ ,” he says, more to himself than anything as he stalks over to the corner of children he’d taken his eye off.

Fenris stays until Hawke gets back from evicting a few of the students for being too rowdy and destroying bar property, several chairs and glasses from what he can see at the bar, even though he generally leaves before this time. Normal-person schedules, and all that.

He lays a hand on Hawke’s where it rests, holding his glass. Hawke looks over, smiling tiredly. “Let me know when you are free for dinner, Hawke.” The big man gives a thumbs up with his other hand then covers Fenris’s hand with his for a moment.

“Good night, Fenris.” _I’ll make room_ , he thinks. _I can make room for Fenris._


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke and Fenris have a conversation

**_Free for lunch Friday/today. Free for early dinner Saturday. Free for normal-person dinner Monday_** , Hawke texts later that night as he’s helping Zevran clean up the bar. He imagines Fenris sleeping and smiles a little to himself. Zevran, thankfully, is not Isabela, so he keeps his comments to himself, though Hawke has no doubt that the night’s events will be relayed as soon as they see each other. 

He heads home, feeds the dog, and collapses into bed.

F: **_Monday sounds good._** (7:10 am)

H: **_Sweet maker what kind of time is this fenris_** (7:11 am)

F: **_Normal-person time. Go back to sleep._** (7:11 am)

H: **_Stop texting then_** (7:12 am)

F: **_Sorry for waking you earlier. Light sleeper?_** (10:17 am)

H: **_Sometimes. Don’t worry about it, bad dream anyway._** (10:20 am)

F: **_If I have to explain what a cookie is one more time…_** (11:01 am)

H: **_Oo, are you baking, Fenris? :P_** (11:05 am)

F: **_. . . ._** (11:05 am)

H: **_Shut up, I’m hilarious._** (11:06 am)

F: **_So you say. I’ve yet to see proof._** (11:45 am)

H: **_You wound me._** (12:15 pm)

H: **_Your hands are so small._** (2:20 pm)

F: **_Correction: your hands are large._** (2:27 pm)

H: **_Correction: your hands are so small and perfect._** (2:30 pm)

F: **_Your hands are still large._** (2:45 pm)

H: **_And perfect, I know._** (2:46 pm)

H: **_How was work?_** (5:10 pm)

F: **_Are you bored?_** (5:22 pm)

H: **_Yes. How was work?_** (5:22 pm)

F: **_Numbing. But I have a story for you._** (5:25 pm)

H: **_Can’t wait. I don’t have anything new yet. We’ll see if anything happens._** (5:26 pm)

F: **_I exist in hope that something exciting will happen to you before 11._** (5:27 pm)

H: **_Aren’t you sweet?_** (5:27 pm)

H: **_GOT ONE_** (10:14 pm)

H: **_Good night, Fenris._** (12:15 am)

F: **_Good morning, Hawke._** (9:20 am)

H: **_Are you going to work late or did you deliberately text me later?_** (9:22 am)

F: **_It’s Saturday, Hawke._** (9:23 am)

H: **_Oh._** (9:23 am)

H: **_Right._** (9:23 am)

H: **_I knew that._** (9:24 am)

H: **_Happy Saturday, then._** (9:30 am)

F: **_Heh, thanks. You’re working all day?_** (9:31 am)

H: **_Pretty much._** (10:20 am)

F: **_Try to not have too much fun._** (10:23 am)

H: **_I never do._** (10:31 am)

H: **_Stuffy ass rich people._** (4:08 pm)

H: **_All-natural sticks up their all-natural asses._** (4:09 pm)

F: **_The sticks, sure. The asses? Questionable._** (4:11 pm)

H: **_Please tell me you had a better afternoon than me._** (4:13 pm)

F: **_It was exquisite in its laziness._** (4:14 pm)

H: **_I hate you._** (4:15 pm)

H: **_I’m glad._** (4:15 pm)

H: **_But jealous._** (4:16 pm)

F: **_Do you have a day off this week?_** (4:20 pm)

H: **_Monday?_** (4:22 pm)

F: **_Please take a day off next week._** (4:24 pm)

H: **_Why?_** (4:24 pm)

F: **_You’re not invincible, Hawke._** (4:27 pm)

H: **_Damn near._** (4:27 pm)

H: **_I’ll think about it._** (4:35 pm)

H: **_Good night, Fenris._** (12:30 am)

F: **_Good morning, Hawke._** (9:14 am)

H: **_Shhhhh_** (9:15 am)

H: **_Morning_** (11:22 am)

F: **_OK?_** (11:24 am)

H: **_Bad night._** (11:25 am)

H: **_Long day, too. Enjoy your lazy day, you bastard. I’m working til midnight._** (11:27 am)

F: **_Do you trust me?_** (11:30 am)

H: **_??_** (11:30 am)

F: **_With dinner._** (11:31 am)

H: **_Sure_** (11:32 am)

F: **_I’ll let you know when and where._** (11:34 am)

H: **_Fucking Hightowners_** (5:44 pm)

H: **_Who knew there were five kinds of salmon and ordering the wrong one would be a fireable offense?_** (5:45 pm)

H: **_French bastards_** (5:46 pm)

F: **_Are you working the DuPuis party?_** (5:46 pm)

H: **_How the fuck do you know about it?_** (5:47 pm)

F: **_We’re...neighbors. A few houses down, anyway._** (5:48 pm)

H: **_Jesus, Fenris. You seemed so normal. What else don’t I know about you? Are you a serial murderer?_** (5:50 pm)

F: **_I’ve considered it, with them as my neighbors._** (5:51 pm)

H: **_Hah! OK, you’re redeemed._** (5:52 pm)

F: **_Glad to hear it._** (5:52 pm)

F: **_It’s a rental, if that helps too._** (5:53 pm)

H: **_You can rent that shit?_** (5:54 pm)

F: **_Sure. Just not on Craigslist. It pays to know people._** (5:56 pm)

H: **_Apparently._** (5:56 pm)

H: **_Unrelated, I can’t ever let you see my house now._** (5:57 pm)

F: **_I’m sure it is a very nice hovel._** (5:58 pm)

H: **_Ass. See if I bring you leftovers now._** (5:59 pm)

F: **_Leftovers?_** (6:00 pm)

H: **_Fuck yeah. I always nab food from gigs like this._** (6:01 pm)

F: **_I suppose I could wait up for food._** (6:02 pm)

H: **_Send me your house number, I’ll be round close to midnight as I can manage._** (6:03 pm)

F: **_5352\. No fish._** (6:03 pm)

H: **_All the salmon. Got it. See you later._** (6:04 pm)

F: **_Ass._** (6:04 pm)

H: **_Good night, Fenris._** (1:40 am)

F: **_It took you that long to get home?_** (9:45 am)

F: **_Good morning, Hawke._** (9:46 am)

H: **_Not all of us can squat in the lap of luxury._** (9:49 am)

F: **_I could have driven you._** (9:51 am)

H: **_It’s fine._** (9:51 am)

F: **_7:30 pm. Elegant’s._** (10:04 am)

H: **_Are you trying to kill me? Elegant’s just got cited for food poisoning. Again._** (10:10 am)

F: **_Trust me._** (10:12 am)

H: **_FOOD POISONING, Fenris._** (10:13 am)

F: **_TRUST ME, Hawke._** (10:14 am)

H: **_OK._** (10:20 am)

H: **_I’m going to die._** (12:15 pm)

H: **_Please have “he was right” engraved on my tombstone._** (2:00 pm)

H: **_And then under it write “warned Fenris about the damn food poisoning.”_** (3:56 pm)

H: **_RIP_** (6:02 pm)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, this almost didn't get posted today. With work and painting the house...I have been _busy_.
> 
> Alas, this will have to be the last chapter posted until September, most likely. It's just so crazy over here; we're moving at the end of the month and aren't packed. >.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke and Fenris visit a fine establishment

Hawke meets Fenris in front of Elegant’s at 7:30 pm. Or, rather, he waits nervously for Fenris in front of Elegant’s, since he managed to show up fifteen minutes early. Walking nearly everywhere has its advantages, except when you can’t correctly estimate the amount of time it will take to get to a new place and don’t feel like Googling it. He spends the time before Fenris shows kicking the curb to relieve his anxiety. Fenris is punctual, showing up precisely at 7:30 pm.

Elegant’s, despite the name, is anything but. Its facade is crumbling in places, and the pink neon light of the sign that flashes the restaurant's name glares harsh and gaudy on the sidewalk. It’s the kind of place, Hawke thinks, that shows up in movies all the time. A real shithole on the outside, still a shithole on the inside but charming for it, somehow. He isn’t sure what Fenris sees in this place and isn’t keen on finding out, but he said he’d trust Fenris and intends to do just that.

Fenris looks up at Hawke from a few paces away. Hawke raises an awkward hand in greeting, unsure on the protocol of what he’s fairly certain could be considered a date. He’s wearing black Converse with his jeans and a plaid shirt open over a black undershirt and hoping he doesn’t look completely stupid next to Fenris, who is wearing boots, tight jeans, and a grey henley under a leather jacket and looking damn good.

“Hawke,” Fenris greets, darting his eyes up and down Hawke’s form. “We’re not going here.” 

Hawke raises his eyebrows. “Then where are we going?”

“Follow me.” Fenris reaches forward to lightly grab one of Hawke’s hands and, after checking Hawke’s face to see if that was OK, pulls him around Elegant’s building and down the alley next to it. The alley goes on for some way, and as they pass more and more fire escapes and inexpertly painted doors, Hawke begins to get a little nervous. The tension travels down his arm, and Fenris squeezes his hand reassuringly when he feels Hawke’s fingers spasm. “Nearly there,” he says. They round a corner and Fenris halts in front of what looks like a very, very old house sandwiched between two modern tenement buildings. A small, hand-lettered sign reads “The Black Emporium” and another hung under it proclaims “Kirkwall’s best kept secret.”

Hawke’s eyebrows feel like they’re merging with his hair. “You’re bypassing Elegant’s for this? What is this place?”

Fenris grins, quick and bright. “Kirkwall’s best kept secret.” Then he holds the door open for Hawke.

Antique light fixtures are scattered around the small space, more for decoration and ambience than an actual source of light. Hawke can see a few more modern lights dotted around to make up for it. The tables and chairs don’t match at all, and the paintings on the wall are of a similar eclectic mix. To his left, a stairwell disappears up to the second floor and, presumably, more of the same. Fenris leads him through large arched doorways, not letting go of his hand, toward the back of the house. In what looks to be the house’s dining room there is a table set slightly apart from the others. A vase, empty of water, holds a single dead carnation, but the wine bottle next to it appears to be full.

Fenris gestures to the table, dropping Hawke’s hand, and they sit next to each other so they each have a good view of the door and the rest of the house.

“The Emporium is the only place in the city I’ve found that carries this wine,” he says, pouring them each a glass. “Aggregio Pavali, from Tevinter.”

“No shit.” Hawke whistles. He knows the reclusive country doesn’t like to trade much with outsiders, so an establishment that can get a steady flow of wine from there? He’s impressed and looks around with a new eye.

The paintings on the wall, though mixed and matched and thoroughly clashing with each other, are all high-quality works from artists he now recognizes from his mother’s collecting. The tables and chairs are in a similar vein, the craftsmanship of each visible from where he sits now that he knows what to look for. The dead carnation on the table? That, at least, is exactly what it seems.

“How did you find this place?”

“I invited him.” The slow, wheezing voice comes from over Hawke’s shoulder and he startles, hand going to the knife in his pocket. “I apologize. I did not mean to frighten you.” The voice belongs to an old man, ancient really, nearly corpselike, who closes a hidden door behind him then bows.

“I am Xenon, proprietor of this establishment.” He walks around to the front of the table, wraps his hands around the carnation, and when he pulls them back, the flower is alive. Hawke narrows his eyes at the magic trick, but Fenris claps politely. Another bow from Xenon.

“Thaddeus will be by with your refreshments soon. Please, enjoy yourselves.” Xenon disappears into the kitchen.

Hawke leans his chair back on two legs (what does he care if it’s fancy?) and appraises Fenris. “What did he mean, he invited you?”

“As it sounds,” Fenris cages. He swirls his wine, takes a sip, and looks at his glass as though it has disappointed him.

“I’d figured that much out.” Hawke drops his chair back onto all fours and drinks from his own glass. The wine is drinkable. For a person whose tastes are finely attuned to this sort of thing it must be good, though. He imagines Bethany would find it to be an excellent wine since he can drink it without feeling he has to gag. “Why are you looking at your wine like it didn’t manage to get straight As?”

Fenris’s eyes widen slightly, as if he hadn’t realized what he was doing. He huffs out a short breath and sets the wine down on the table. “Xenon invited me because the wine and I share a heritage.” He picks his glass back up, smiling sadly. “A Tevinter wine and a…Tevinter refugee.” His next sip of wine is less a sip and more a gulp. He doesn’t look at Hawke, doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Refugee?” Fenris says nothing, and Hawke presses his lips together. “Fenris, I don’t care where you came from or how you got here.” This seems to surprise Fenris enough that his eyes meet Hawke’s for a moment. “Cross my heart,” Hawke says, giving Fenris a small, lopsided smile as he performs the motion with the hand not holding his wine.

“I can’t say I’m not curious,” he continues, “but I won’t make you talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Thaddeus comes by as Fenris considers, watching Hawke out of the corner of his eye. The platter set on their table seems to hold a variety of cheeses, meats, crackers, and sauces, and Hawke rubs his hands together eagerly, plucking up a few morsels to create a tiny sandwich. He winks at Fenris as he pops the whole thing into his mouth and leans his chair back again.

Fenris delicately moves some things around on the plate, examining each kind of cheese and meat in turn, and Hawke’s chewing slows as he watches Fenris, intrigued at the other man’s process. It’s obvious that Fenris actually knows what he’s doing, understands what cheeses will pair with what sauce or cracker or meat. Hawke wonders where he picked it up, if it was in Tevinter or from his snooty neighbors, the DuPuises. Fenris swipes a cracker through one of the sauces then places a piece of cheese gently on top. The cracker is halfway to his mouth when he realizes Hawke is watching him, completely entranced. Fenris flushes, and Hawke hurriedly apologizes and turns away to stare at a painting across the room.

A low chuckle brings Hawke’s attention back to the table and to Fenris, who is giving Hawke a somewhat bemused smile. “Try these,” he says, pointing to a cracker, sauce, and meat, and laughs at the speed with which Hawke grabs the suggested foods and stuffs them in his mouth. That seems to break the tension that had settled over the table, and the next twenty minutes pass enjoyably, with Fenris giving Hawke pairing suggestions that he happily accepts and idle conversation between bits of food and sips of wine.

Once they finish the platter, Thaddeus appears with a bow to whisk it from their table. Hawke tops off their glasses and tips his chair back. The Black Emporium is growing on him. He hadn’t been sure about the place when they had first walked in, but he likes how unpretentious it is. There’s no pretending to be fancy or something it isn’t. You get what you see, and that’s something Hawke can respect, even if it’s a little much to get used to. The wine is growing on him too, but that may just be because he and Fenris have polished off the bottle on their table already and, though he is a large man, Hawke is a lightweight. It’s what happens when you work and sleep all the time: no time for social, or unsocial, drinking. He can feel the wine beginning to fuzz the edges of his brain and plants his chair back on the ground to be on the safe side.

“I fled Tevinter nine years ago, fearing for my life. In Tevinter, those of Seheron descent are seen as...inferior to pure Tevinters. Life there is not easy.” Fenris speaks quietly, twirling the wine in his glass. His green eyes are focused anywhere but Hawke, as if seeing him will snap the fragile courage he has summoned. “But for many years I was protected. My ex, he is a powerful political figure in the senate, and while we were together, he would not allow anything ill to befall me. I believe he is the reason my application was processed as quickly as it was when I submitted it to the Marches; it was easy to prove I had a reasonable fear of persecution, beyond just my race.”

He falls silent, brushing something off his thigh. Hawke tries his best not to stare, feeling suddenly both too tipsy and way too sober for this conversation. “Fenris, I— ”

“I would not recommend the process,” Fenris says, attempting levity though he can’t manage to get his smile to stick. “It is the worst of the bureaucratic hellholes one can get stuck in. Worth it though,” he muses after a beat of silence. “At least he cannot follow me here.”

“He was that bad?” Hawke asks softly. None of his exes have managed to fit into the “crazy” category, though he isn’t sure exactly how many of the people he’s slept with could count as an “ex” anyway. He doesn’t talk to any of them, but he hasn’t wanted to even so much as leave the city because he might see them.

“Eventually.” Fenris sighs, then tilts his head slowly side to side in a hedging gesture. “Yes.” He sighs again. “I have been encouraged to acknowledge that it was…that despite how it seemed for a while, it was not a good relationship. I was little more than a toy to Dan, though I did not realize it at the time.”

Anything Hawke could have said in response is interrupted by Thaddeus, who bustles back to their table bearing another platter of food. He sets it down and retreats, and Hawke is distracted for a moment when he looks at what was brought.

“Sushi,” he says flatly, noting that Fenris’s nose wrinkles at that, “and corned beef with cabbage. What,” he asks, turning to Fenris, “the fuck.”

Fenris snorts a soft laugh through his nose. “I do not think Xenon went to culinary school.”

“That’s for fucking sure,” Hawke laughs and rotates the platter so that the corned beef is closest to Fenris and the sushi is on his side. “That OK? You don’t like fish, right?” Fenris’s smile is grateful but bemused, as if he did not expect to Hawke to remember that. 

They fall to, both happy for an easy excuse to stop the previous conversation, and instead talk about Fenris’s first time at the Black Emporium, where he’d drunk an entire bottle of wine and eaten two whole platters of the cheese and crackers they’d had earlier by himself. New to the city and without a place to live, he’d succumbed to his anxiety but when he demanded a second bottle from Xenon, the proprietor had instead handed him a piece of paper with an address on it.

“I have lived there ever since. The owner is a friend of Xenon’s, though we have met but once to come to terms over a rental agreement.”

“OK, but how did Xenon know you’d come to Kirkwall in the first place?” Hawke asks. “That just boggles the shit out of me.”

Fenris shrugs, stabbing at the corned beef. “I have never asked. It was not something I wished to know when I first moved, and I have since lost my curiosity over it. I imagine he must know someone in the immigration office. He seems the well connected sort.”

Hawke hmms in response, grabbing a piece of sushi with his fingers: Thaddeus had provided a fork for the corned beef but no chopsticks for the sushi. “So mysterious,” he stage-whispers, eyes wide, before plopping the roll in his mouth. Fenris smiles and a warmth having absolutely nothing to do with the wine pools in Hawke’s belly. 

OK, so the feeling has a little to do with the wine, and it has more to do the wine the more he drinks when Thaddeus appears with a new bottle and whisks away the empty one. Hawke isn’t sure how long it is between when they finish the sushi and corned beef and when Thaddeus comes with dessert, but it’s long enough to get mostly through the new bottle of wine. He tries to surreptitiously check Fenris’s watch, but it’s on the other man’s left wrist, which is farthest from Hawke, and the effort leaves him teetering in his chair. He decides it’s best to simply ignore clocks, then, and focuses on drinking and talking with Fenris.

The dessert Thaddeus brings is... well, Hawke isn’t sure what it is. It kind of looks like a seashell, one of those ones with spines, but conical instead of curled around on itself. It’s hollow, he discovers, when he gets up out of his chair to take a closer look as Thaddeus leaves them. “Fenris, what is it?” he whispers, completely lost. “What do I do?” He is treated to a raised eyebrow as Fenris sits forward and simply breaks off a piece from the top, placing it in his mouth as he leans back.

“Oh shut up,” Hawke grumbles and follows Fenris’s example. The seashell-tree is sweet and a little soft, and Hawke makes pleased little eating sounds as he devours his first piece then three more in quick succession. He misses the amused look Fenris throws his way while his eyes are closed savoring the dessert.

Thaddeus clears their dessert plate, and Hawke and Fenris sit together a while longer, drinking and talking, until the second bottle is empty. Definitely and pleasantly tipsy, bordering on drunk, Hawke watches Fenris, placing an elbow on the table so he can lean his head on his hand. Fenris, damn him, does not appear to be quite as tipsy as Hawke as he mirrors the gesture, staring mildly back.

“Yes, Hawke?” he rumbles, twitching up one corner of his mouth.

“The night is young, and we should get ice cream.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I swear, "DuPuises" is the correct way to pluralize that freaking name. I have an English degree (also I looked it up to be super sure).
> 
> 2\. The dessert Hawke and Fenris have is this: [it's called sakotis and is a Lithuanian dessert](http://organics.org/wp-content/uploads/sakotis-weirdest-desserts-lithuania-e1441028121770.jpg). It comes up when you Google search for weird desserts, lol.
> 
> 3\. We have moved! There are boxes and furniture everywhere and the old apartment still has some crap in it and needs to be cleaned, but the big stuff is taken care of. My free time is still mostly nonexistent, so my guess at a next chapter will be next week. Hopefully by then, things will have settled down.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which ice cream

“What?”

“Ice cream,” Hawke repeats, and his face lights up in tipsy excitement. “Yes? Yes.”

“And where will we find ice cream at,” Fenris checks his watch, “ten at night?”

Hawke’s face falls, then he grins slowly until his entire face seems to be made of his smile. “My place!” he declares. “I live around the corner, kinda, and I bought entirely too much ice cream last time I went grocery shopping. It was on sale.” He watches Fenris consider, his smile dropping a little the longer it takes.

“You don’t have to—”

“OK.”

“What?”

“OK, ice cream.”

Hawke’s smile comes back full force, and he jumps out of his chair, dashing around the table to stand next to Fenris and hold out his hand. Fenris’s eyes crinkle with amusement, and he takes Hawke’s offered hand after digging a few bills out of his wallet to place on the table. Very gently, Hawke squeezes Fenris’s hand as he leads them out of the Black Emporium and back toward Elegant’s. He’d intended to let go once they reached the sidewalk next to Elegant’s, but Fenris’s hand tightens on his when he loosens his grip, so Hawke smiles to himself and keeps his large hand tucked over Fenris’s smaller one. It’s comfortable.

It takes them fifteen minutes to reach Hawke’s house, a small two-story in a newer, well-kept neighborhood, though the rest of Lowtown is a stone’s throw in any direction. The front yard has one small tree to the left of the front door and a small porch to the right. The house is painted a somewhat shocking red, even at this hour, and Fenris wonders what it looks like in the daytime. Hawke leads Fenris up the couple steps to the porch and front door, shuffling his free hand through his pocket for his keys. He opens the door and stands back, gesturing, but Fenris makes no move to enter the house first, shifting nervously on his feet on the porch. Hawke tilts his head in confusion but kicks the screen door so it stays open and tugs lightly on Fenris’s hand as he leads the way into the house. 

It isn’t a huge house, but Hawke has left a lot of empty space in the first floor’s open plan. Nothing is immediately in front of them on entering, and only a single couch and chair sit to the left in front of the TV. Farther into the house are a small table that could fit four snugly and the kitchen, a rather nice affair with dark wood cabinets and light granite countertops. Hawke hasn’t decorated much; the walls are a light brown with only a few paintings scattered here and there. The floors are hardwood, one rug under their feet at the doorway and another in front of the TV.

“It is a very nice hovel,” Fenris comments as he takes it all in, chuckling when Hawke turns a scandalized look on him.

“Hovel,” Hawke scoffs, dropping his keys on the floor as he walks toward the kitchen. “See if I share my ice cream!” Fenris nudges the front door closed with his foot and follows Hawke. The dining table is spotless but the island in the kitchen is another story. Days or weeks’ worth of mail lie in various states of open, and Hawke quickly sweeps the empty cereal bowls that crowd the counter over to the sink and shuffles the mail into one corner. 

There’s a scrabbling noise from above, and Hawke turns with a look of tipsy panic right before Fenris finds himself on the floor underneath 180 pounds of dog. “Shit,” Hawke says from somewhere above him. The dog is hauled off and Fenris stands, looking over at Hawke who is now crouched on the ground, arms full of a wiggling, fawn-colored dog licking his face.

“I forgot you said you have a dog.”

“I have a dog.”

“Does he have a name? What is he?”

From the floor, Hawke looks relieved that Fenris isn’t either running for the door or more perturbed by the size of the beast. “He’s some sort of English mastiff mix, but we’re not positive what he’s crossed with. Either way, he’s fucking huge. His name, uh,” Hawke scratches the back of his head, “is, uh, Cheerio.”

“Cheerio.” Fenris’s mouth curves upward and he laughs openly. “You named your English dog Cheerio.”

Hawke grins and releases the dog, now that the wiggling has subsided. Cheerio bounds back to sniff Fenris all over, having been thwarted in his first efforts at such. Fenris, for his part, stands still, allowing the dog’s giant muzzle to snuffle into him, angling his hands so he can scratch the beast’s head once his palms have been sniffed and approved. Inspection complete, the dog boofs at Fenris then walks away to curl up between the humans and the front door.

“Well, that went better than normal,” Hawke remarks, and he kicks out one of the island chairs so Fenris can sit, then piles two bowls, two spoons, chocolate and caramel syrup, and four gallons of ice cream in front of him.

“It was on sale,” he repeats quietly, as Fenris stares. 

“I believe you have a problem, Hawke.”

“Not if you help me eat it! And I will be very irate if you do not.” Hawke busies himself opening two of the tubs and spooning out generous portions of cookies ‘n’ cream and cookie dough ice cream into his bowl. A loud gasp and he drops his bowl on the counter, runs to a cabinet, and returns with several shakers of sprinkles.

“How old _are_ you?” Fenris shakes his head but reaches for the buttered pecan.

“Five, going on thirty-two,” Hawke replies happily, shaking a good helping of sprinkles onto his ice cream. He’s enjoying the buzz the wine has given him, surfing on the high notes of the evening: going to dinner with Fenris, Fenris’s trust at sharing part of himself, Fenris agreeing to come back to Hawke’s house. He can feel a small, distant part of his brain frowning at his own exuberance, but he dropkicks it in the mental ass.

A month ago he had been certain he needed to cut Fenris out of his life and quickly; today he can’t imagine Fenris being anywhere else. Small Fenris, whose feet don’t reach the floor as he sits in his chair at the island, whose hands fit inside Hawke’s, who looks at ease in Hawke’s kitchen. His heart seizes a little as he watches Fenris carefully pour caramel sauce on his ice cream, and he absently drops a kiss on the crown of Fenris’s head as he passes him to sit at the island too.

Fenris stiffens a little at the kiss, and the caramel sauce _splortts_ out a large blob into Fenris’s neat lines. He scowls at it then looks up at Hawke, who has the good sense to look mortified.

“Sorry! I don’t know why I did that!” Hawke reaches for Fenris’s bowl, realizes he has no idea why he’s doing that either, and instead drops his hands to his sides. “I won’t do it again.”

Fenris sighs and pokes the offending caramel blob with his spoon. “It is fine, just...unexpected.” He swirls the spoon through the rest of the caramel sauce to create a more uniform spread.

“So, it’s OK with you if I do it again?” Hawke asks, reaching for his spoon to take a bite of his slowly melting ice cream.

Fenris hums. “Perhaps not while I am concentrating on delicate matters, however.”

“Deal. Sorry about messing up your sauce.”

Hawke puts the ice cream back in the freezer later, after it becomes apparent that one bowl will be enough for both of them, ignoring Cheerio, who snuck over to beg when Hawke stood up. “Dinner’s later,” he says, scratching the dog’s ears once the food is away. “But I suppose a snack…” Supersize milkbone procured, Cheerio ambles back up the stairs. “What?” Hawke asks, feeling Fenris’s gaze on him. “It’s really hard to say no to puppy eyes when you’ve been drinking.”

Fenris just snorts and gathers their bowls, rounding the island to place them in the sink with the rest of the dishes. Leaning against the fridge, Hawke crosses his arms, watching Fenris at the sink. His heart seizes again. “Fenris?” His voice squeaks a little and he clears his throat, repeating himself. Fenris glances over from the sink, raising an eyebrow in question.

“I would really like to kiss you, if that’s OK.”

Fenris blinks slowly, then he’s standing in front of Hawke and reaching up to grasp the back of Hawke’s head and bring him down. The first kiss is insistent, demanding. The second is hesitant. The third nearly doesn’t happen, but Hawke grasps Fenris’s ass and hoists him up, pressing their bodies together. Fenris wraps his legs around Hawke’s waist, and Hawke growls, running one hand up and down Fenris’s back. Fenris breaks the kiss with a breathless little giggle and says, “my turn to climb you.”

Hawke snorts, bounces Fenris into a better position, and walks them to the island, setting Fenris down on the counter. He leans against him, placing his large hands on either side of Fenris’s hips, and catches Fenris’s bottom lip in his teeth, sucking and pulling at it, before licking into the other man’s mouth. Fenris moans, a short, strangled sound, his mouth opening for Hawke’s, his hands fisting in Hawke’s dreadlocks.

One of Hawke’s hands grasps at Fenris’s hip, squeezing as he angles his head to kiss and nip his way down that dark, tattooed neck. Fenris’s head lolls, allowing Hawke access to one side and then the other. He tugs sharply on Hawke’s dreads, and Hawke whimpers, looking at Fenris with pupils so wide the brown is nearly invisible.

“Hawke,” Fenris rasps.

“Fenris,” Hawke whispers, darting forward to kiss him gently. “Fenris.” His other hand cards through Fenris’s white hair, nails scraping his scalp. Fenris’s eyes darken and he leans into Hawke’s touch. They stay there, breathing heavily, faces nearly touching and eyes locked, Hawke’s hand moving through Fenris’s hair, Fenris’s hand gripping the back of Hawke’s neck in a vice. 

Hawke raises his other hand to carefully brush his knuckles across Fenris’s cheek, a small whine escaping his lips as he does so. Fenris surges forward to kiss Hawke again, his eyes wide, and Hawke’s whine turns into a full-throated groan when Fenris shoves off the island, forcing Hawke to either grab hold or drop him. And then Hawke finds it hard to draw a breath as Fenris brushes his hips up against Hawke’s once, then again, and again, setting a slow, maddening pace, grinding their growing erections together. Hawke stumbles back into the other counter and plants his feet wide, kissing Fenris with a desperation he’s not felt since, well, he’s not sure he’s ever felt quite like this.

“Fenris,” he gasps, pulling away when he wants nothing more than to keep going. “What do you want?” Fenris slows but doesn’t stop, head thrown back, panting little noises of pleasure.

“You.”

“How much of me?” 

Fenris does stop at that, eyes widening in confusion and what looks like fear, and he begins to unwrap himself from around Hawke.

“Hey, it’s OK, stay with me,” Hawke says, patting Fenris’s leg and moving them over to the couch before Fenris can fully disengage. He sets the smaller man on one end of the couch and sits near the other, leaving some space between them but patting it in invitation as he sits down, feeling startlingly sober. “You’re OK.”

Fenris blinks owlishly at him, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. His breathing is still hard and heavy, and Hawke’s not sure if it’s from their kissing before or from the startle. They sit in silence for a while, Hawke picking idly at patches on the couch as he carefully watches Fenris go through a set of breathing exercises to calm himself down, his eyes closed.

When Fenris’s breaths stay even for a minute, Hawke nods, more to himself than anything, shifting a little on the couch to put one foot on the floor. “How are you?” 

Fenris huffs and Hawke can hear the self-loathing in that small noise, familiar enough with the feeling to recognize it. It takes another few minutes for Fenris to respond, his eyes open and darting around on the couch, as if the words he seeks are hidden there.

“I feel like a fool.” Fenris’s words are quiet, and he doesn’t look up from the couch to meet Hawke’s gaze.

“Why?” Hawke asks gently, in a passable imitation of every counselor he’s ever been to see. Fenris does look up then, eyes narrowed shrewdly. He laughs bitterly before turning away and shaking his head.

“I…do not know how to answer your question.” He waves an arm in the direction of the kitchen, to indicate which of Hawke’s questions he’s speaking of. “It is not one I have been asked before.”

“I think I really _need_ to punch your ex. I _want_ to _and_ I need to, now.” Hawke presses his lips together, employing some breathing exercises of his own before continuing. “It’s OK if you don’t know, if you need to think about what you want right now. I like you.” He smiles and spreads his hands open to his sides. It feels good to say the words out loud, as if letting them hang there in the air between them solidifies Hawke’s desire to keep this man close and protected for as long as he is able. They seem to hit Fenris too, and something sparks in his green eyes.

“I like you,” Hawke repeats. “And I can wait.”

Fenris regards Hawke, so many emotions flicking across his face that Hawke can’t keep up. Finally he seems to come to some sort of decision and uncurls, slowly extending an arm toward Hawke. Hawke smiles and reaches back, enfolding Fenris in a hug and carefully leaning back until he’s lying on the couch, one leg extended along the cushions and Fenris on top of him, head pillowed on his chest, hair tickling his chin. He rests one hand on Fenris’s head, lightly running his fingers through white hair, and the other on his own stomach. Closing his eyes, he savors the feeling of Fenris against him, and a warm rush floods through him as Fenris strokes a thumb back and forth across the side of his neck.

He’s not sure exactly when he falls asleep, happy and warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments! I love getting them; they make me so happy. I'm glad you're all enjoying this fic 'cuz I'm having a grand time writing it. :)


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fenris meets Merrill and we get a little bit more plot

Fenris leaves in the wee hours, reminding a nearly comatose Hawke that he keeps normal-person hours and needs to sleep before getting to work. Hawke’s mumbled protests of “sleep here” are met with a sad smile and “I can’t” before Fenris slips out the door and Hawke falls back asleep.

He wakes only a few hours later, bolting upright and nearly falling off the couch after a particularly bloody nightmare where Carver had melted and morphed into Fenris, who cried out and reached for Hawke as he was dragged under by scores of murderous Templars. Hawke fumbles for the TV remote, desperate to get the terrified, betrayed look on Fenris’s face out of his mind. He lets some infomercials play, setting the volume on the high side of what might be acceptable this time of night, and shuffles into the kitchen to get some coffee.

As the coffee brews, he fishes his phone out of his pocket, groaning when the screen helpfully tells him the time, 4:44 am. At least there’s also a text from Fenris: _**Good night, Hawke.**_ (2:01 am)

Hawke smiles tiredly and drags a hand across his face before responding. _**Glad you got home OK. Sleep well.**_ With nothing else to do until much later that morning, Hawke sets to cleaning his house, a task that, more often than not, falls by the wayside as he works. He washes the dishes, opens and sorts all the mail, cleans the counters, sweeps the floors, and dries and puts away the dishes. Cheerio comes downstairs at some point, watching Hawke from his rug near the door.

Happy with his foresight to brew an entire pot, Hawke pours himself another cup of coffee and stares at his clean house. Well, clean downstairs. Upstairs is another story, but since the only things up there are Hawke’s bedroom and a rarely used guest room, he doesn’t bother directing his energies that way.

F: _**You’d better be sleeping, Hawke.**_ (7:15 am)

H: _**Nope.**_ (7:15 am)

F: _**Hawke…**_ (7:16 am)

H: _**Fenris…**_ (7:16 am)

H: _**I’m fine.**_ (7:16 am)

Hawke sends Fenris a photo of his half-empty coffee pot to prove his point.

F: _**Please let it be noted that I am against this plan of caffeinating yourself to death.**_ (7:19 am)

H: _**Noted. How did you sleep?**_ (7:20 am)

F: _**Normally. Did you sleep at all?**_ (7:22 am)

H: _**That’s not evasive at all. And yes, maybe 3 hours?**_ (7:23 am)

F: _**And you work all day, I assume?**_ (7:27 am)

H: _ **From 11 til whenever I’m done at the bar.**_ (7:28 am)

F: _**When is your next day off?**_ (7:31 am)

H: _**Sunday, like usual.**_ (7:32 am)

H: _**You sound like my mother.**_ (7:35 am)

F: _**And you sound like you’re trying to kill yourself.**_ (7:51 am)

Hawke does go upstairs to clean then, leaving his phone on the kitchen island. It’s true he works a lot, but it’s a huge leap to say he’s working enough to kill himself. Sure, Sunday isn’t a full day off, but it’s a day off his full-time job and he figures that counts. And what does Fenris know, anyway? Hawke has handled himself and his schedule by himself just fine for years now, and he doesn’t need anyone else meddling in his affairs. His mother and sister do a wonderful job without help.

Sighing, Hawke leaves his room, having only managed to pick things up and throw them to new places instead of actually clean. He sits with the dog on the couch until he needs to get ready for work, watching the still blaring TV without taking anything in.

He’s partway through his occasional shift as museum security when Fenris texts again. _**I may have a lead for you.**_ (12:34 pm) Hawke can’t breathe. He ducks into an infrequently visited exhibit, hands shaking.

H: _**I thought I told you not to get involved.**_ (12:38 pm)

F: _**My old roommate works shifts at a free clinic in Darktown. They occasionally treat people like your friend.**_ (12:40 pm)

H: _**Why didn’t you tell me this earlier??**_ (12:41 pm)

F: _**He has been gone for several days and just got back. I did not want you to stress without reason.**_ (12:43 pm)

H: _**Where is the clinic?**_ (12:44 pm)

F: _**He is not there today. I can take you tomorrow.**_ (12:46 pm)

H: _**No. Just tell me where it is.**_ (12:47 pm)

F: _**I won’t let you go alone, Hawke.**_ (12:48 pm)

Hawke balls his hands into fists, ignoring the creak of his phone’s case as it’s squeezed. He glares at the babysitter who herds three children into the exhibit, and they leave quickly so he can focus on how the nail stubs on his left hand dig into his palm. It doesn’t calm him down.

H: _**I can’t risk anyone else.**_ (12:55 pm)

F: _**Let me make my own choices.**_ (12:56 pm)

His head thumps against the wall, and he can feel a headache brewing behind his left eye. He’s not sure if it’s stress or lack of sleep. Or both.

H: _**When tomorrow?**_ (1:00 pm)

F: _**Are you working?**_ (1:01 pm)

H: _**Not anymore.**_ (1:01 pm)

F: _**I’ll pick you up at 11.**_ (1:02 pm)

Hawke calls his backup for the farmers’ market, doing a good impression of sickness, the headache present in full force lending most of his credibility. He promises he’ll be better by Saturday and hangs up, burrowing his head in his hands. One of the museum staff comes by on a sweep and leads him by the elbow to the administrative office where she offers Hawke some painkillers and a bottle of water. Hawke spends most of the rest of his shift wandering the museum aimlessly, not paying attention to the guests, trusting his presence to deter more than anything.

Fenris comes by The Hanged Man at 7:00, carrying a large coffee from Redcliffe. Hawke looks from it to Fenris, raising an eyebrow. “You know you’re facilitating my decline,” he comments after a long drink.

“Just trying to avoid having you crash on the job.”

“Your concern is overwhelming. What are you doing here so early?”

Fenris settles his messenger bag on the floor between his stool and the bar after pulling out his tablet. “I have work to do since I won’t be in the office tomorrow, and the company here is better than home. And I was worried about you,” he adds with a small smile. Hawke huffs into his coffee but smiles back.

Fewer students today and Hawke counts his blessings, until Isabela, taking a patron’s order nearby, deathgrips a shaker under the counter where no one but Hawke can see. He tenses and half-stands, and Fenris looks up from his work.

“Which table, doll?” Isabela asks, her voice unwavering and her smile positively glowing. The man points. “We’ll bring it right over.” Hawke’s gaze flips over to the indicated table, where he can see the tiny florist from the shop around the corner. She waves at the man and he heads back.

Isabela takes three quick steps over to Hawke, grabs his arm, and whispers, “Merrill’s Stoned.” 

“Shit. What does she usually drink?”

“G&T, extra lime.”

“Make it. I’ll bring it over.” Isabela nods and quickly pulls the drink together, her eyebrows knit in concern.

“Hawke, what’s going on?” Fenris asks.

“Remember that first night you were here and I threw out that guy who was hitting on you?” Fenris nods. “Remember what I told you to order if it happened again?” Green eyes widen slightly in comprehension. “Yeah. And that girl over there? I’d do just about anything for her.”

Isabela places Merrill’s drink on the bar next to Hawke. “We all would,” she says. “Kick his ass, Hawke.”

Not for the first time Hawke’s glad that his “uniform” for work is at least somewhat inconspicuous, the logo for The Hanged Man on the front, BOUNCER on back where it’s only visible after he passes someone and even then it’s pretty subtle. He looks simply like an employee as he approaches the table, drink in hand, and sets the glass down in front of Merrill. He offers her a smile, squeezing her shoulder.

“Where’s my drink?” the man across the table demands. “I ordered The Stone for her and a martini for me!”

“Did you?” Hawke lifts his eyebrows innocently. “My apologies, mister..?”

“Wilmod.”

“Right. Here’s the thing, Wilmod.” Hawke leans casually against the table, arms crossed. “I’m not getting you anything except out of here. See, you’re coming on way too strong and making my friend here uncomfortable, so I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“I’m not listening to a bar monkey!” Wilmod splutters. “We’re getting on just fine over here. Now bring me my drink!”

“Mm, no.” One arm plants on the table between Merrill and Wilmod. “Merrill, would you like this man to leave?” She nods smally behind Hawke’s arm, and Wilmod’s eyes widen in shock.

“WHAT?! You said you were having a good time!”

“As I said, you’re making my friend uncomfortable. Leave. Now. Or I will make you. We have a very low tolerance for your shit here.”

Wilmod jerks, flailing across the table at Merrill, and Hawke sweeps his arm up and out, grabbing Wilmod’s arms in one hand. He twists the man around and slams his head against the table. “Enjoy your gin and tonic,” he calls to Merrill as he hoists Wilmod out of his chair and stiff-arms him toward the door. The confused sounds Wilmod makes are music to his ears.

Sten opens the door as Hawke nears, Isabela having radioed in that he was coming. “Here’s the stone,” he says, shoving Wilmod at the sidewalk. “Don’t ever come back.”

Wilmod scrambles to his feet and rushes at Hawke who sidesteps and shoves him up against the building. “Leave,” Hawke growls. He releases Wilmod, who backs up a step but turns, like he still wants to fight. He hesitates, seeing Sten stand from his stool. If Hawke is an intimidating sight at six five, he can only imagine how people see Sten, who pushes seven feet and whose arms are the size of Hawke’s legs.

“You’ve made an enemy today!” Wilmod points at Hawke, who thinks he’s supposed to be frightened at that but isn’t.

“Right. Bye bye!” He grins and waves three fingers until Wilmod turns and stalks down the sidewalk and out of sight.

“Got his face?” he asks Sten before he goes back inside. The larger man nods. “Good. Make sure Shale gets it too, and I’ll pull a pic off the cameras for Varric. Thanks.”

Merrill is sitting at the bar a few stools from Fenris as Hawke comes back in, chatting with Isabela. She beams at Hawke and throws her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Hawke! I really didn’t know what to do. He’s come into the shop a few times to buy flowers and he always seemed so nice so I didn’t think he might not be when he asked me if I’d like to get a drink after work tonight but he just kept asking really weird questions and saying things that I think were dirty and—”

“Of course, Merrill,” he interrupts, smoothing her hair and kissing the top of her head. “Any time.” She and Isabela smile at him as he ducks into the back office to pull out the paperwork Varric will want from him and see about getting a good picture of the man’s face from the security cameras. It’ll be worth the extra shit from Varric for banning a patron after one offense to keep Merrill safe.

Merrill is just one of those people who has a knack for getting people to like her. She’s personable and genuinely friendly all the time; Hawke hasn’t seen her get mad or angry at anyone for anything. Every patron who comes into her shop leaves with their smiles just a little wider for having been in Merrill’s presence. Merrill is his foil, Hawke decided long ago when they first met. She solves with a kind word what he would with a fist and believes the best of people, even when they give her cause to mistrust them. She lights up rooms when she enters, and even Hawke knows the world needs more people like Merrill in it. He intends to see people like her stay around long after people like him are gone.

He exits the office to see Fenris, bent close to Isabela and Merrill, speaking quietly. Curious, he tries inching forward to eavesdrop, but Isabela spots him and breaks up the gathering before he can get close enough. He fixes his gaze on Merrill, knowing she’s the weak link of this chain, but when she just squeaks and turns on her stool to look in the opposite direction, he humphs and sits down next to Fenris.

“Nope,” Fenris says when Hawke opens his mouth. 

“Absolutely not,” Isabela agrees, entirely too happy about keeping a secret.

“You’re all the worst,” he grumbles and pointedly ignores them, though he does sneak glances at Fenris occasionally, pleased that he’s staying as long as he is. Fenris smiles at his tablet when he feels Hawke looking at him, but sometimes Hawke is just sneaky enough to see Fenris’s face as his brows furrow in concentration or when he rolls his eyes at something, and he loves it.

Merrill packs it in around 11:00, hugging Hawke tightly again before she goes. He holds his hand out for her phone and sets the app that will let him know when she gets home, letting her go with promises to come by the shop sooner rather than later.

Fenris shuts off his tablet at midnight, saying that if he doesn’t get to sleep soon, he won’t at all. Hawke lets him go, knowing that at least one of them needs sleep and the driver should probably be it, but first he takes one of Fenris’s hands in both of his, kissing the cuff at his wrist.

“Good night, Fenris.”

“Good night, Hawke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meep! Meant to get this up yesterday but Life Events have a way of barging in, y'know? I'll update again Monday! Thank you all for your lovely comments and kudos :D
> 
> (Merrill is such an interesting character: dangerously naive and a blood magic practitioner. It's a very odd combination, and I adore Merrill most of the time, while sitting back and yelling "Nooo what are you DOING??" at some of the things she does...she's just so cute...)


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The many men, so beautiful!  
> And they all dead did lie:  
> And a thousand thousand slimy things  
> Lived on; and so did I.”  
> \- Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a happy chapter. Warning added for violence, proceed with your own level of caution.  
> Music rec: "Holy Branches" - Radical Face

“You’re just jealous,” Carver spat, pushing at Hawke’s shoulder. “I’ve finally gone and done something for myself and here you go, making it about you!” He threw a punch at his brother’s head, his anger rising when Hawke deflected the blow instead of engaging.

“You absolute ass.” Hawke slapped away another punch and hit Carver up the side of the head. “It’s never been about me or you. It’s always been about mother.”

Carver ducked down and swept a leg out, taking Hawke off his feet. He stomped down but missed as Hawke rolled to the side, snaking his arms out to grab Carver’s foot and pull him off balance. Carver toppled and Hawke scrambled to sit on his brother’s chest, pinning his arms to his sides with his knees. 

“You know mother spent everything you earned last week on wine, right? She keeps it under her bed so you won’t see.” Carver squirmed, trying to get loose, but Hawke held tight. “If it weren’t for me, we wouldn’t eat.”

Hawke hated it when Carver was right. It happened infrequently enough, but still. “And if you die? What then?”

“Then I suppose you’ll have one less mouth to worry about, big brother.” 

Hawke punched him, just once, not hard enough to do any real damage. “Get up,” he snarled, rising to his feet. “This isn’t the place.” Not that there was any good place for a brotherly knockdown fight, but the alley outside the decrepit house they shared (for now, Hawke reminded himself) with their deadbeat uncle was decidedly not a good location. The sun had set and the single street lamp at the end of the row of houses didn’t quite cast enough light to make it all the way down the alley. They weren’t incredibly visible but—

“Carver?” Their mother’s voice—they were audible. The brothers cursed in unison, and Carver got to his feet as Leandra rounded the corner into the alley. “Garrett?”

“What are you doing out here?” Hawke snapped, turning his back on Carver to walk toward their mother. “You should be inside at night!”

“I heard you two fighting,” Leandra warbled, her voice thickened with wine. Hawke could smell it on her breath, in her clothes. The woman was marinated. “I don’t want you to fight. You’re all I have left.” She reached a hand, sniffling, toward Carver who stopped brushing himself off and let his mother clasp his arm.

“Get her inside,” Hawke growled at Carver and stalked back into the darkness of the alley. “And check on Bethany. I have to see Meeran.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Hawke tailed his little brother, slipping from shadow to shadow as Carver strode boldly through the gathering dusk. Of Carver’s faults, and he had many, this disturbed Hawke the most. Hawke had developed an excellent sense of spatial awareness in the year he’d worked for Meeran, and something twisted in his gut as he watched how badly Carver hadn’t. Either he was stupid or he thought his dalliance with the Templars would protect him from other people who went bump in the night, which was nearly the same thing. Carver was lucky he had Hawke to look out for him.

Despite his warnings, verbal and physical, Carver had kept running with the gang instead of joining Hawke in the extra work he’d badgered from Meeran. It left Hawke tired and ragged, barely sleeping, as he struggled to fulfill what two people could have easily accomplished. He was determined to not need Carver’s dirty Templar money, however, whatever the cost.

He’d begun withholding money from his mother, as well, keeping a percentage to himself so he could make sure there were groceries in the fridge when there needed to be, not just wine under Leandra’s bed. Bethany had offered to help, but Hawke hated it enough that Carver was helping and refused. He wanted her to focus on applying for colleges; Carver for his part wasn’t interested in higher education. Hawke also wanted at least one of his siblings to stay safe, and Bethany had always been easier to get along with than Carver. If Carver snuffed it thanks to his stupidity, well, no great loss, right?

Carver stopped at a wide T intersection, standing off to one side, mercifully out of the street lamp’s light for once. Hawke froze, only inching forward and around behind some crates piled outside of a warehouse’s back door when Carver’s eyes, scanning the alleys, were directed away from him. He pulled himself up onto one crate, settling down halfway behind a smaller box set on top of it. That way he could see enough but wasn’t extremely visible unless someone turned a light on or squinted really hard directly at him. 

And then he waited. Not extremely patiently, there were things he could be doing for Meeran right now, but patiently enough. The boxes and crates weren’t too uncomfortable, and waiting did give him a chance to sit and rest. It had been a long day.

Carver paced the alley intersection, making wide turns and loops as he strayed in and out of the street lamp’s light. He was talking to himself, Hawke could see, though what about he wasn’t close enough to hear. Probably planning a few cutting remarks he could yell at Hawke during their next argument. Cute.

Hawke closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the box. He could hear Carver’s pacing footsteps. Back and forth. Back and forth. Was this meeting even going to happen? Maybe the Templars had decided Carver wasn’t what they wanted and were cutting him loose. Unlikely. Hawke hadn’t heard of anyone leaving the Templars, and he’d been keeping a rather close eye on them of late. No, it was more probable they were deliberately late just to make Carver sweat. Sounded like something Hawke would do.

Eventually Carver’s movement stopped and Hawke opened his eyes, looking up. Carver was surrounded. Templars, he assumed, given Carver’s nervous posturing. The boy was trying his best to look confident and unthreatened, but his eyes gave it away. Hawke could tell from where he was that Carver was glancing wildly from Templar to Templar. Idiot boy.

“Couldn’t get the big one to come along?” One of the Templars shoved at Carver’s shoulder as he spoke.

“I told you, he’s stupid. You don’t need him.” 

Another Templar backhanded Carver across the face. “Maybe. But we want him.” A punch to the gut and Carver wheezed out a breath but straightened back up. Like he’d done this before and knew what was expected. Hawke narrowed his eyes.

“I guess we’ll have to settle for you.”

“I guess so.” Carver’s voice barely wavered. Templars around the circle began cracking their knuckles, rolling their shoulders, and bouncing on their feet. One of them took a single step back, the leader, Hawke assumed, and let the circle close behind him. 

“Do you swear yourself to the Templars now, to serve at her pleasure until you are deemed unfit?” he asked, walking counterclockwise around the group.

“Yes.” An uppercut to the jaw and a left hook across the face.

“Will you safeguard your Templar brothers and sisters above all others, giving your life for theirs?”

“Yes.” A few punches to the ribs and another across the face. Carver’s lip split open and began bleeding.

“Will you keep Templar secrets as though they are your own, and die before revealing them?”

“Yes.” A kick to the back of a knee and Carver had to kneel, though he struggled to regain his feet. A knee to the face halted his progress. His nose dripped blood.

“Do you—”

“KPD! Back away from that man!” Hawke’s head snapped to the side, staring at the police officer who had entered the alley. One man against eight, nine if you counted Carver, were not odds Hawke had wanted to take; he supposed the whole Kirkwall Police badge and gun thing was supposed to help, maybe frighten them into submission. How much did the KPD really understand about the Templars, Hawke wondered. Clearly not enough if they were sending one-man patrols through Lowtown.

The officer, Vallen said his name plate, advanced on the group, thumb flicking the catch from his holster. “This is your last warning. Back away now!” No one backed away. The Templars closed ranks around the kneeling Carver, all turning to face the officer. The leader, having finished his circumnavigation of the group, stood in front, a wicked look in his eyes. He didn’t say anything, just quickly closed the distance with Vallen and shoved a knife into the man’s side, twisting and pulling it out roughly. Vallen fell to his knees then toppled over limply, hand still twitching for his weapon. Blood pooled under the officer, sickly pulsing out of his body until Hawke was certain he should have already bled out. But still he struggled. The Templar leader laughed and bent down to wipe his knife clean on Vallen’s uniform.

“Conclude our business,” he commanded the others. They paused then turned as one, each drawing a knife from somewhere on their person, and plunged the blades into Carver, his neck, his chest, his arms, his back. Hawke, hidden, bit his tongue until he tasted copper to keep from crying out, his eyes wide, disbelieving and angry. So angry. In his silence he could hear Carver, gasping raggedly every time a blade punctured his skin, crying in pain as the blades withdrew. 

Hawke saw Carver’s blood sprinkling the ground, spilling from wounds, flying from knives. He curled his hands into fists, pressing his nails viciously into his palms. The Templars kept Carver from falling over until he fell as silent as Hawke. The sound of his body hitting the ground echoed in Hawke’s ears; his arms shook. The Templars cleaned their knives and left.

Hawke waited ten minutes before he left his hiding place, uncurled his hands to eight deep new bruises, and used Vallen’s radio to call in his location.

“Who is this?” the tinny radio voice demanded.

“You don’t fucking need to know, especially if you want this idiot to live. Hustle, asshole.” He shut the radio off.

“You’re useless,” Carver told him, his head bent the wrong way. “You just watched. You watched me die! How could you do that to me? To Bethany? To _mother_? You’re the one who said it was all about her, but we can see that isn’t true now, can’t we?” Hawke stood mute over his brother’s body as vacant, glassy eyes stared up at him.

“I protected you, did you know that? They wanted to initiate you too. But I said no, I said they couldn’t get you. My stupid big brother, who can’t see a good opportunity when it comes around.”

“Carver…”

“I knew you were following me. I wanted you to see, I can take care of myself. I knew what I was doing with the Templars, but you never believed me.”

“Carver.”

“I was going to show you, prove that you don’t need to protect me too. But when I really needed you, where were you? Hiding! If you had come out when Wesley showed up, it would have been three on eight. We could have done it. But you’re a coward. You broke your promise and left me alone.”

“Carver!”

Hawke wakes drenched in sweat, bolt upright in bed. His throat hurts and the nervous whining from the dog tells him that he’s spent a good portion of his sleep time screaming. “Fuck. That’s a new one.” His voice is close to a whisper. He drains the water bottle next to his bed and throws the covers back, heading downstairs. Coffee won’t help his throat, but it will help his head.

He drinks another glass of water as the coffee brews and pats the dog’s head idly as he texts Fenris.

H: _**Whenever you’re ready.**_ (5:58 am)


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke meets Anders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, I think, the longest chapter I've written so far. I thought about breaking it up into two, but didn't and here's why: I got married on Saturday and am leaving for honeymoon nonsense tomorrow morning, so I won't actually be posting a chapter next week! Regular chapters will resume when I am back, starting October 10.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Warning for some gross descriptions near the end of the chapter. Proceed apace.

Fenris collects Hawke at 10:00 am but insists they get breakfast first when Hawke admits he’s only had coffee. Green eyes narrow at the rasp in Hawke’s voice but he doesn’t say anything about it until they’re seated with their food in the McDonald’s closest to Darktown. 

“You were up early this morning.” Fenris taps Hawke’s hashbrown where it sits, untouched with the rest of his food. Hawke takes a surly bite, glaring at Fenris who smiles serenely. “When did you get home?”

“Maybe 3:30?” Hawke guesses. He hadn’t kept an eye on the time as he and Varric worked on the paperwork in the office. Varric had been distracting him anyway, asking questions about Fenris and why Hawke hadn’t introduced them yet when he wasn’t berating Hawke for banning a one-offenser. Infuriating busybody. Of course, getting home at 3:30 didn’t necessarily mean getting to sleep shortly after, something Fenris seems to understand by the tilt of his head and squint of his eyes. “Oh shut up,” Hawke mutters. “It wasn’t my worst night of sleep ever.”

“Hawke, perhaps you should—”

“No.”

“—see a specialist or—”

“Back off.”

“—take some sleeping pills—”

“ _Fuck no._ I know I sleep like shit; I don’t need someone else trying to make me feel guilty about it,” Hawke snaps. He plants his hands on the table and stares across at Fenris. “I don’t need this from you, too. So just fucking…let it go. I’ll be at the car.” He stands and strides out the door before Fenris can respond.

Leaning against Fenris’s unassuming sedan, Hawke crosses his arms and doesn’t stare at Fenris through the windows. He keeps his gaze resolutely fixed on the ground a few feet in front of his toes, not looking up when Fenris walks past him ten minutes later. Once he’s seated in the car, Fenris drops the bag of food in Hawke’s lap and growls, low and dangerous, “eat.” Hawke lifts one corner of his lip in a half-hearted snarl but does as he’s told. The drive into Darktown is quiet and tense.

Fenris parks a few blocks away from the clinic and they walk up. Hawke keeps one hand casually close to the knife in his pocket. The clinic Fenris’s friend works at is in shambles, the paper lanterns out front ripped and stained in more places than not. There isn’t even a sign on the place except the little one that says “OPEN” on one of the two doors. The buildings attached on either side are in similar condition, as is the rest of the street, really. Hawke did enough work in Darktown years ago to be familiar with much the place, though this is a section he never visited often. 

Fenris holds the unmarked door open for Hawke. They step through into a small waiting room, shabby but serviceable. A harried looking young woman is signing patients in while answering questions from someone else at the same time. She waves Fenris and Hawke through, widening her eyes in exasperation for a second at them before she forces a smile back onto her face and tells the man asking that no, he cannot be in the room while his grandchild is in surgery, the doctor will be out with news when he’s finished.

Hawke has one hand curled into a fist as he walks at Fenris’s side, reflexively pulsing the nails into his palm. They travel the short length of one white hallway, passing two doors on the right and one on the left. Fenris turns at the last door on the left, slams his first against the wood once, and turns the knob.

“One moment!” a voice calls but Fenris is already in the room, beckoning Hawke in beside him. The voice belongs to a seated man, tapping something out at his computer, red-blonde hair pulled up in a haphazard ponytail. Hawke can tell from the way his legs are bent that the man will be only a few inches shorter than him when standing, and he shifts his posture, straightening just slightly and rolling his shoulders back.

“I said—oh. Fenris. Of course.” The man looks back at them, tired writ large on his face though he carries it gracefully. “What is it? Are you hurt again? No, you look fine. Him?” And honey-brown eyes are suddenly fixed on Hawke, examining every inch of him with clinical detachment. They pause on his clenched fist but move on without bringing it up. “Also fine. Why are you in my office, then?”

“Again?” Hawke asks Fenris, who shrugs one shoulder in response.

“We are here for information on any Templars you have treated in the last four weeks.”

The blonde man raises his eyebrows at Fenris then drops it to pinch the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Why hello Anders, how are you? My ribs have healed nicely, thank you. You’re a wonderful doctor, and we’re such good friends I feel comfortable asking you to violate doctor-patient confidentiality. Are you mental?!” 

“Broken ribs?” Hawke demands. Fenris ignores him.

“I simply wish to know if you have treated any. Surely there is no breach in that.”

“Fenris,” Anders says, swiveling to face them fully. His scrubs are old, dirty and patched all over. They match the look in his tired eyes. “I cannot, nor would I, tell you. Please get out of my office.”

“We’re not leaving.” Anders’s gaze flips to Hawke, evaluating the murderous expression he finds there.

“Yes, you are. This is a clinic, a place of healing. You will not threaten it.”

Hawke steps forward, looming over Anders in his chair. “I’m not threatening it. I’m threatening you. You’ll tell me if any Templars were treated here in the last four weeks, or I’ll break more things than you can fix.”

“You don’t scare me, boy.” Anders rises from his chair. Hawke refuses to step back to accommodate him, so the two end up nose tip to nose tip, each glaring furiously at the other. Fenris just stands to the side, arms folded lightly across his chest, amused but attempting to not smile, until Hawke jabs a quick fist into Anders’s gut, forcing him back into his chair to wheeze. A hand on Hawke’s bicep, just for a moment, keeps another fist from flying toward Anders’s face. Hawke sends it against his palm instead. It is not what he wants, and he snarls first at Fenris, who stands impassive, then Anders, breathing heavily in his chair.

“Keep your blighted secrets, then,” Hawke growls and turns for the door. “We’ll find someone else to talk. Thank Fenris for your teeth.”

He’s into the hall, the door banging open behind him, when he hears, “wait.” Anders’s voice. Hawke wheels around to find the doctor standing in the door frame, one arm braced. His socks don’t even match. “I have a proposition for you.” At Hawke’s raised eyebrow and spread arms, Anders shakes his head. “Not out here. In my office, and close the door, for fuck’s sake.”

Hawke stretches his fingers out, using one hand to shut the door behind him, then shoves both in his pockets, leaning back against the door. He waits for Anders to speak. Between them, Fenris stands a step closer to Hawke than to Anders.

“A favor for a favor. Does that sound like a fair deal?” Anders crosses his arms. “You help me and, Maker, I’ll help you.”

“That depends. What the fuck could I possibly want to help you with?” 

Anders lets out a small, surprised laugh and turns to Fenris. “He’s even worse than you. I didn’t know that was possible.” 

Fenris shrugs. “I’ve seen plenty worse.”

“Fine. And your charming boyfriend’s name is?”

“Hawke.”

“Boyfriend?”

Anders looks between Fenris and Hawke, shaking his head. “Oh no, I’m not qualified for this.” Hawke scowls, Fenris smiles, and Anders glances at the ceiling as if for patience.

“Get to it,” Hawke rumbles, “or I will leave.”

“Right. I’ve been worried about a…friend of mine. He hasn’t answered my messages for a few days now, and I can’t get to him because of the gang activity in the area. Help me get to him, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

“What gang?” Hawke narrows his eyes shrewdly. He knows enough about Darktown to know which gangs have what territory. If he can narrow down the area to search in, he and Fenris can probably canvas the place without bothering with this Anders fellow. 

“I tell you that and you leave. You’ll go with me or not at all.” Smarter than he looks, then. “So, do we have a deal?”

“Only if we go now.” Anders’s eyes widen and even Fenris looks surprised. “We’ll wait for you outside for fifteen minutes.” Hawke pushes off the door with his shoulder blades, and Fenris follows next to him as he leaves.

Out on the curb, Hawke leans against the crumbling facade of the building, not wanting to wait fifteen minutes but desperate for information. He likes Aveline’s partner, Donnic. He had brought both of them to Varric’s weekly card games, back when he still attended. Donnic was a gracious player, whether he lost or won, and his presence tempered Aveline somewhat, who tended to get mad when games did not go her way. Hawke had even helped the two of them finally stop dancing and actually _get together_ , yelling “she wants to fuck you, you idiot!” at Donnic after Aveline made a spectacularly poor attempt at flirting during a game. A lot of embarrassment and punching (by Aveline of Hawke) later, the two had figured it out. The station brass didn’t know, of course, and couldn’t know. Especially not with Aveline as Donnic’s handler.

Hawke doesn’t envy their position, though they’ve lasted two years and he figures that’s as good an indication as any that a relationship will go the distance. Considering he himself has never made it past a few months, anything longer than half a year seems like an eternity.

“Are you certain about this?” Fenris’s voice brings Hawke back to the grimy present, and he looks up, frowning at the concern he can see in Fenris’s eyes and the set of his lips.

“Are you worried?”

“Answer the question, Hawke.”

Hawke rolls his shoulders against the wall. “I’ve handled shitpots like them for years,” he says, unconcerned. “Won’t be an issue.”

“You’re not armed.”

“I’m always armed.” Hawke flexes and Fenris lifts an eyebrow. “I’m not defenseless, Fenris. And yes, I’ve been certain since those bastards took my brother.” However much Carver had been the biggest tax on Hawke’s patience, he had also been Hawke’s to care for. Donnic isn’t his, not really, but Aveline is, and this matters to her more than anything Hawke has seen before. So it matters to him. 

Fenris considers him for a while then seems to accept Hawke’s resolve, nodding to himself. “I do not wish to see you hurt, Hawke. It would displease me.”

Hawke grins, big and cocky. “I shall certainly endeavor to see that this beauty remains unmarred for you.” Fenris rolls his eyes but smiles back, and they stand in silence. 

Anders exits the clinic shortly thereafter, looking harried and annoyed, but all that matters to Hawke is that he’s present. The drive to the other side of Darktown doesn’t take long, but the car is silent save for Anders pointing out the turns Fenris needs to take. Hawke, in the front seat, concentrates on rebuilding his mental map of Darktown. There are some gaps in his memory, where something old was torn down and something new put in its place, and he doesn’t make a habit of venturing down this far anymore. He especially keeps track of how Anders directs them and frowns when he realizes that the man is deliberately taking them in a long, circuitous route, like he’s trying to make sure they won’t be able to get back to wherever it is he’s taking them. Infuriating as it is, Hawke supposes he can’t blame him, not when he’d likely do something similar to protect one of his. Still.

“You’re taking us the long way.”

“What?”

“Just admit that we could have been there five minutes ago if we had turned on Hessarian instead.”

“You don’t even know where we’re going.” Hawke can see Anders fold his arms petulantly in the backseat.

“I know enough.” The silence tells him what he wants to know and Hawke sighs. “Just take us directly there, asshole. I know Darktown. You can’t hide this friend of yours.”

“Is that a—”

“It’s not a threat unless you don’t _take us directly there._ ”

Anders points out the next turn, and Hawke settles back into his seat, content that Anders is now leading them properly. They make it to a rundown tenement building and Anders instructs Fenris to park around the corner. Hawke can see the insulted look on Fenris’s face and knows that was Fenris’s intent anyway. He snorts a laugh and gets out of the car first, leaning on Anders’s door to prevent him opening it.

“Tell me what you know.”

Anders glares through the gap of the window, but Hawke doesn’t move. He makes to get out the other side, but Fenris steps in the way and Hawke nods at him over the car roof.

“Fine,” Anders relents, sitting in the middle seat and staring straight forward. “I haven’t treated any Templars. Neither has my clinic. They don’t come to me unless they’ve exhausted all their other options. I’ve made it clear over the years that I don’t approve of them, and since I’m usually up on my Coterie payments, they leave me alone.

“Karl though… Karl Thekla, we went to medical school together. We were going to change the world.” Anders’s laugh is bitter. “He runs a clinic out of his spare bedroom, takes in a lot of Templars. I usually hear from him every day, but he hasn’t checked in for a few days. I’m worried they did something to him.”

“Does he work for them?”

“I…don’t know. He wouldn’t ever tell me anything about them, just that he was doing OK. It doesn’t sound like something Karl would do, though. Not even to save his own life.”

Hawke can’t hear anything untrue in the man’s words, so he lets him out, leading the way toward the tenement where Karl keeps his apartment clinic. It’s no wonder Anders was afraid of gang activity in the area. Karl lives in the Gallows, one of Darktown’s less savory neighborhoods, and one the Templars have effectively claimed as their home turf. Hawke has only been here a rare few occasions: Meeran, Anso, and even Athenril when he worked for that crazy lady knew enough to leave the Gallows to the Templars. There were plenty of other areas to Kirkwall for them to operate in. Hawke wonders when Karl moved in, if it was before or after the Templars expanded into the area. It would make sense if he had already been here and simply couldn’t get out: Templars tended to keep a tight leash on any tenants of their properties they deemed valuable, and as a doctor, Karl was valuable. If he’d moved in afterward, well, Hawke supposes even people who have been to medical school can be idiots.

Anders takes the lead to get them to Karl’s apartment where he knocks and waits. No answer is forthcoming. He knocks again, calling, “Karl? Karl, it’s me. It’s Anders.” Anders digs in his scrubs pocket for his phone and calls Karl’s number, muttering to himself. Hawke tilts his head and looks at Fenris, who stands with his eyebrows drawn down, concentrating on something.

“Anders. Call again and _shut up._ ” Hawke moves closer to the door, shouldering Anders out of the way. Fenris joins him at the door, and they both stand with their ears pressed up against the wood as Anders places the call. Sure enough, Hawke can hear a phone ringing within the apartment. He exchanges a look with Fenris and tries the door.

The knob turns and the door swings open.

Hawke turns in time to grab an armful of Anders, who had attempted to rush in as the door opened. Fenris reaches past Hawke to close the door again, and between the two of them they wrangle Anders away and settle him down.

“You have to let me in,” Anders pleads, his eyes fixed on the door. “I have to see if Karl’s OK.”

“No.” Anders’s wide eyes turn to Hawke.

“What Hawke means is not yet,” Fenris says. He gives Hawke a look that says he should work on his bedside manner.

“Let me clear the apartment, make sure there aren’t any Templars or other nasty surprises. Karl might not even be inside.” Hawke lets go of Anders, grateful when the man stays put and nods his head, agreeing to Hawke’s terms.

“Call for me as soon as you find him.”

Hawke twists the knob again, and Fenris slips into the apartment ahead of him, falling easily into a loose fighting stance just inside. Shifting from foot to foot, Fenris raises a hand to forestall Hawke, who had opened his mouth to protest. “You will not cow me, Hawke. I’m coming with you.” Hawke grinds his teeth but gestures to the right, and Fenris fans out, staying within eyeshot of Hawke as he canvases one side of the apartment.

They clear doors together, Fenris shoving them open quickly for Hawke to step in and assess. It’s easy doing this with Fenris, Hawke thinks, and wonders where in the world he learned how to clear a house. Tevinter probably, but why? A question for another time, and he files it away as he moves through the house.

Karl, it seems, isn’t big on furniture. There isn’t a lot to trip them up, and, as Anders had said, the spare bedroom had been converted into a semi-sterile environment. With the spare bedroom, living room, closets, and bathroom cleared, that left the kitchen and main bedroom. Hawke and Fenris split up, each coming at the galley kitchen from a different direction. Hawke growls as they find nothing but coffee grounds in the sink. One room to go, and he despairs of finding anything but a phone that was left after the Templars abducted Karl. It is, after all, the most likely possibility.

Fenris throws the door open at a nod from Hawke who works his way around the bed in the center of the room. He stops dead and Fenris, following, nearly runs into him. Fenris side steps neatly and halts beside Hawke.

Hawke can only assume the man cowering before them is Karl. Graying already, though he can’t be more than 40, Hawke guesses. He’s nearly as thin as Anders, though likely not as tall, and _whimpering._ Hands raised as if to ward off blows, knees pulled up to his chest, though Hawke can see him try to pull them farther, make him smaller than he already is.

“We are not here to harm you,” Fenris says at his side, holding his hands out to show he carries no weapon. He elbows Hawke to do the same. “Are you Karl Thekla?”

The man on the floor lowers his hands bare inches and nods hesitantly. Fenris smiles encouragingly and drops to his haunches to present a less intimidating figure. He waves a hand behind his back, indicating that Hawke should go get Anders. Hawke rolls his eyes but does as bidden, understanding that threatening Karl will not go nearly as well as threatening Anders.

“Come,” he says flatly from the door frame, moving back into the apartment before he can fully appreciate the startle he gave Anders. The doctor follows him, glancing into every room as they pass, as if Karl might be in any room besides the one Hawke was leading him to.

“Karl!” At the door to the master bedroom, Anders rushes around Hawke and nearly bowls Fenris over in his haste to get to Karl’s side. He kneels beside the other man, wrapping his arms around Karl’s shoulders and pulling him tight. One hand strokes softly through the gray hair, and Karl’s arms drop from their defensive posture to wrap around Anders in turn. “Karl, I thought you might have been… why didn’t you answer your phone?”

That whimper again, very nearly a whine, and Fenris and Hawke exchange another look, both of them standing at the foot of the bed. Close enough to see but far enough away to give the illusion of privacy. Anders jerks back at the sound and begins examining Karl, his hands gently roaming, pushing and prodding, searching for the source of the injury that could have caused Karl to make that sound. Tears begin leaking out of Karl’s eyes. Anders ceases his search, eyebrows creased in worry.

“Karl, what’s wrong?”

Still weeping, Karl closes his eyes, tips his head back, and opens his mouth. Anders falls silent. Fenris draws in a sharp breath, and Hawke bellows, “those fucking bastards!” Karl closes his mouth, hiding his face in his hands again. Anders, visibly shaken, coaxes Karl’s mouth back open so he can examine the wound. 

“It’s not a clean cut,” he murmurs to himself, and Hawke can see the veneer of professionalism that Anders attempts to spread across his words and actions. “You’ll be all right, Karl. You did well to stop the bleeding.” Anders twists to address Hawke and Fenris, eyes narrowing slightly at their clasped hands. Hawke isn’t sure when that happened or who reached for whom, but he sure as hell isn’t letting go. Fenris seems to feel the same, squeezing gently.

“We need to get him to a hospital. I’m not sure if there’s still time to graft new skin in there to regain semi-normal tongue function, but he’ll need therapy if he’s going to learn to eat and speak again.” Karl whines and Anders’s attention is again fixed solely on him, hands brushing over his face and shoulders soothingly.

“I need answers first.”

“You have got to be joking,” Anders hisses, not turning fully from Karl. “Now?”

“Yes, now. You leave with him and I lose my source. He’s not in immediate danger, or you would have already moved him. I’m asking my questions.” 

“I really don’t think—”

“I don’t care what you think. I need to know if my friend is alive!”

Karl rests a hand on Anders’s, and his mouth turns up in a gruesome parody of a smile. Hawke supposes that, if Karl still had a whole tongue, it would be a kind smile, reassuring Anders that he can do it. As it is, Anders makes strangled, frustrated noises, not wanting to let Hawke question Karl but trying to respect Karl’s decision to allow it.

“The Templars were here recently,” Hawke says, a statement, not a question. Karl nods. “How many days ago?” 

Karl holds up one finger, then adds another, his eyes furrowing in confusion. Hawke frowns, realizing that Karl’s grasp of time has been skewed. He probably hasn’t slept, definitely hasn’t eaten, since whenever the Templars were here, at least a day or two ago. His information may not be completely trustworthy due to that, but it’s still the best Hawke has to go on.

He pulls his phone out of his pockets and flips through the photo gallery until he finds one of Donnic. Isabela had taken it, sandwiching herself in between Aveline and Donnic. All three are laughing, and Hawke realizes that the picture was taken years ago at one of Varric’s game nights. A sour feeling settles in the pit of his stomach, and he quickly turns the phone to Karl so he doesn’t have to look at it anymore.

“Was this man among the wounded you treated?” Karl squints and moves closer to the phone. Anders shifts so he has an arm across Karl’s chest, steadying him. At a nod from Karl, the breath leaves Hawke’s body and he jerks away from Fenris to rush at Karl.

“Is he alive? How was he? Is he OK? When did he leave here?” It’s only Anders waving an arm at him that prevents Hawke from grabbing Karl’s shoulders. He falls to his knees instead, arms limp at his sides. “I need to know.” 

Karl nods, considers, then holds up one hand in a thumbs-up gesture. He waggles it from upright to horizontal and back, and Hawke can breathe again.

“Do you know where they went?” Karl shakes his head and Hawke shrugs. “Long shot.” He pushes himself off the floor and backs up again to stand next to Fenris. “Can you take them to the hospital?” he asks quietly. “Calling an ambulance is probably a bad idea.” Fenris nods.

“And you?”

“I’ll clean up here. Lock the place. Come back and get me when you’ve dropped them off.”

Hawke informs Anders and Karl of the plan. Anders looks relieved that they’re finally getting out of the apartment; Karl would probably look grateful if his facial expressions were better regulated. Fenris leads them out of the apartment, Karl practically draped around Anders’s neck for support.

“Oh,” Hawke says, leaning against the frame of the front door. “If you tell anyone that I was here or who I was asking about, I will find you and kill you.” He smiles. “I hope you make a speedy recovery.”

He shuts the door in Anders’s outraged face and dials Aveline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I like Anders.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke gets some status updates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I return! And so does your weekly chapter :D

The mood among the employees of The Hanged Man is subdued until Aveline walks in Friday night, an actual smile, however small, on her face. Hawke had been downright tetchy the last few days, snapping and growling over small things he wouldn’t usually bat an eye about. It had set everyone a little on edge, though Hawke seemed oblivious to it.

Fenris isn’t there yet, and Aveline takes a seat on his stool, one away from Hawke. Isabela shoos Zevran to the other end of the bar so she can linger near Hawke and Aveline, fixing Aveline a drink without her asking.

“Donnic sent in a report.”

Hawke exhales a breath he hadn’t known he was holding and nods. “That’s good. And he’s...?”

“He’s alright, banged up pretty good, but alive. His wounds were light enough that he was among the last sent for treatment. He’s made some progress.” Isabela sets down Aveline’s drink then leans against the bar between them. Hawke glares at her until she raises her hands and walks slowly away. Isabela knows a lot, more than most people, in fact, but that doesn’t mean that Hawke wants her any more involved than that. Knowledge of the past is one thing; knowledge of the present is quite another.

“Progress?” Hawke asks, leaning toward Aveline once Isabela is far enough away. He raises one eyebrow. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

“That depends. If you think it means Donnic has found a Templar who might flip, then yes.” Aveline takes a calm sip of her drink. Hawke lets that information digest for a minute, turning it over in his mind. He knows this is exactly what Aveline has been hoping for these last six months, the entire reason Donnic is undercover in the first place. Of course, it would take more than just any old Templar turning state’s evidence to make the case that they’re aiming for.

“Who is it?”

Aveline fixes him with a look, one he’s seen often enough in the last six months. “You know I can’t talk about it.”

“Tell me anything, Ave. I have to know. Is he important, at least?”

She sighs, picks up her glass, and drinks. Looking at the liquor in the glass like it contains the answers she wants, Aveline doesn’t answer for a few long minutes. Hawks drinks from his own glass and gazes out over the bar floor. He shouldn’t completely abandon his job while Aveline is here, especially since the news is good tonight.

“Second.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Hawke. I won’t repeat myself.”

Hawke leans back on his stool, impressed. “Her second… That’s a fucking coup, Ave.”

“You think I don’t know that? Now shut up before I make you. We’re in public, you idiot.”

He laughs, ignoring her threat as empty. He’s in a really good mood now: Donnic’s OK and working on turning the Templars’ second-in-command. Hawke isn’t familiar with who that is these days, but anyone who rises in the Templar ranks is a true believer; Meredith won’t tolerate any less. The fact that one of the lieutenants, called a captain if he recalls his Templar structure correctly, is willing to betray the organization is huge. Aveline knows this is a big deal, but Hawke wonders if she truly grasps the significance. Possibly not, and that’s OK. It’s not like she has to intimately understand the workings of the Templars in order to bring them down. She just has to know enough.

“Do you think he could get anyone else to—” Hawke breaks off as Fenris approaches and stands behind Aveline for a moment before pulling out and sitting on the stool between Hawke and Aveline.

“Do not stop on my account,” Fenris says drily, arching an eyebrow at Hawke.

“This isn’t a conversation for you.” Hawke’s face is flat as he stares at Fenris. Fenris simply waves at Isabela and tips his hand back and forth to indicate he’d like to order a drink.

“You can’t scare me off, Hawke. I was there.” Their eyes meet, green challenging brown. Hawke looks away, stares at Aveline instead.

“Bit late, isn’t it, Ave?” 

“I don’t have to be at the station tomorrow,” she responds, taking a slow pull on her drink. Deliberately breaking eye contact with Hawke, she turns to Fenris, setting her glass down on the bar and crossing her arms in front of it.

“So, Fenris, lovely to meet you.” Hawke throws up his arms in exasperation and leaves to walk the bar and glower at someone else. “How is Karl?” Hawke gets gone before they start speaking in earnest, though he does throw a look or two their way as he does his round on the floor. Aveline and Fenris seem to be getting on well, he notices with some annoyance, as Fenris throws his head back and laughs at something Aveline said. Hawke’s eyes narrow in suspicion. He knows Ave isn’t above telling Fenris all of the worst stories that feature him, and he doesn’t look forward to Fenris asking him about any of them. There were a lot of things he did in his first few years in Kirkwall that Aveline knows about, mostly because some of them involved him getting in mild trouble with the authorities. Aveline as his sort-of-friend, back then, had bailed him out of a few scrapes, a line of credit he knew was from his attempt to get Wesley the help he needed. It didn’t last very long, but his attempt to help hadn’t been all it could be, either.

The second time he looks back at the bar, Fenris and Aveline are in conversation with Isabela, who smiles cheekily and waves at him when she sees him watching. This he knows can’t be good, but none of the three are anything close to loose-lipped, even under duress, so he resigns himself to finding out what the hell they’re plotting when it up and happens.

He retakes his seat and joins whatever Hawke-sanctioned conversation the three engage in, but his attention is mostly directed elsewhere, and his answers and reactions are relegated to hums and grunts when anything is needed of him. 

After Aveline leaves for the night, claiming that she still needs to sleep even if she isn’t getting up early for work, Fenris remains seated on the stool directly next to Hawke, rather than move to his usual stool. Most of the rest of the stools are taken by other patrons, The Hanged Man becoming busier as September starts and the university students are all back. Hawke takes regular patrols of the floor, just to head off any trouble before it starts, and keeps most of his attention fixed out there, even when seated at the bar. He doodles shapes into the bartop with his finger, idly tracing patterns while his eyes and mind are elsewhere. 

When his finger runs up against something solid and warm, he blinks and looks down. Fenris’s arm is lying across the bar, casually draped in Hawke’s way, where it hadn’t been before. Fenris, for his part, slightly raises an eyebrow at Hawke and returns to his drink. Hawke grins and resumes his finger’s path, running up and around Fenris’s arm, following the patterns of his tattoos and drawing new ones. This he pays attention to, letting the floor fade in his perceptions. 

He focuses on the way his dark skin contrasts against Fenris’s, the way the white tattoos appear stark against his hand as he drags his finger down them. At the cuff on Fenris’s wrist, he circles the bottom edge as far as he can go either way, then bumps up and over the leather to trace down each of Fenris’s fingers in turn. A low hum of pleasure sounds from Fenris, and Hawke smiles in a way entirely not safe for work. Fenris’s pleased sounds turn to a strangled, frustrated growl when he sees the look on Hawke’s face.

“Hawke…”

“Mm?”

“Come to my house after work.”

Hawke raises one eyebrow and leans forward and down to kiss the heel of Fenris’s hand. “Whatever you want.”

To say that the rest of the night passes slowly would be to grossly misstate things. After Fenris leaves, the time drags, the hands on the clock only moving in five minute increments when Hawke looks up at the one behind the bar. If his temper is shorter than usual and he’s somewhat rougher on patrons if they step out of line, he figures he can’t really be blamed. The promise in Fenris’s voice sits heavy in the back of his mind, replaying over and over. It’s distracting. Isabela coos at him as she fixes the bandana over her hair near the end of the night, and he half-heartedly grumbles at her. Varric offers him the end-of-day paperwork once he hears from Isabela about Fenris, laughing uproariously at his joke as Hawke pushes away from the counter to grab a broom from the back and start sweeping, pretending he hadn’t heard.

They take pity on him eventually, only making him sweep half the floor before Isabela comes over and nimbly steals the broom from his hands before he realizes. “Leave now or he’ll fall asleep waiting for you!” She wiggles her fingers in farewell and smiles broadly at his haste to grab his jacket and punch out.

The walk to Hightown isn’t bad, September not being far enough gone for the weather to turn cold at night. It is chilly, though, and Hawke zips up his red hoodie as he goes. Kirkwall is still pretty far north, considering, and doesn’t get nearly as cold as Ferelden used to. Or does, Hawke supposes. It’s not like the country of his birth is any less frigid now than it was when he lived there. There isn’t a lot about it he misses. Too cold, too wet, too many memories. 

Leandra had been devastated when Malcolm died nine years ago, a “mugging gone wrong” said the police investigation. Hawke, partway through his last year at Lothering University, dropped out and picked up a few part-time jobs to make up for the lost income. There wasn’t a lot in Malcolm’s will, and the Hawke family had never been particularly well off anyway. They got by on what Hawke made, sold the house they’d been living in to ease the way, and moved into a smaller apartment. A year later, when Carver was sixteen, he picked up work too. Hawke resented that, believing he should be able to provide for the family without Carver having to help. But Carver was as stubborn as Hawke who in turn was as stubborn as their father had been and wouldn’t hear about giving up his job, especially since he was still keeping up in school, however barely.

They’d picked up and moved out of Ferelden three years after Malcolm’s death, partly because Leandra had been in contact with her only surviving relative and felt the pull of family and partly because Bethany had been accepted to the University of Kirkwall on a half scholarship. It would be hard, they knew, to come up with the rest, but Leandra had been certain that her brother would take them in until Hawke could find a nice, full-time job that would provide for them. And Gamlen had, in the end, taken them in. But only after much cajoling by Leandra and outright threatening by Hawke. He did not miss his uncle and did not much care if he never saw the man again. Moving out of Gamlen’s house had been the best day of his life.

He smiles now as he thinks of Fenris and moves just a bit faster up the stairs toward Fenris’s Hightown digs. The house is big enough that it could have comfortably suited the Hawke family, before Malcolm’s death, plus the parents Leandra had lost (and Gamlen, he supposed) with a little extra space left over. He knows from the last time he was here after the DuPuis party that Fenris only makes use of half of the rooms on the right side of the mansion. The entire left side of the house is completely unoccupied and has been for as long as Fenris has rented the place. There may be spiders, Hawke thinks, giant, mutated spiders that grew unchecked over the years...but probably not. 

He knocks on the front door and rocks back on his heels, waiting for Fenris. When no one comes, he knocks again, staying closer to the door, body tense. He’s reminded of Karl’s apartment and his breath quickens. The door knob turns in his hand when he tries it. A lead weight settles in his stomach. It wouldn’t make any sense for the Templars to come after Fenris, at least, Hawke doesn’t know of a reason why they would. The most likely thing is that Fenris left the door unlocked for Hawke when he came back home and fell asleep somewhere as he waited, but Hawke still can’t shake the feeling of dread. He pulls a hair tie from his pocket and binds his dreads back in a loose, low ponytail so they don’t fall into his face then enters the house.

The foyer looks deserted, a single small lamp on a table in front of him illuminating only the barest patch of the room. He grabs his phone and turns on its flashlight, sweeping it around the foyer. Fenris is likely to be in one of two places: his room, directly in front of Hawke and up the stairs, or what passes for the living room, through the door to Hawke’s right.

The living room is dark too, and Hawke nearly trips over a stack of books as he shines the flashlight around at the chair and couch. No one on either. He sweeps up through the kitchen, ignoring the pantry as least likely, and heads back to the main area and the staircase. It’s a grand staircase, very Titanic, with elaborately carved banisters that could use a light dusting. His flashlight lights up a few stairs at a time as he quietly ascends. There is no noise in the house aside from Hawke’s hushed breathing and light footfalls. 

Fenris’s bedroom is the door straight ahead and slightly ajar, letting out a little light, Hawke notes. He creeps closer, pausing at the threshold to listen. Rustling, shuffling. He peers through the crack, trying to see what’s going on before entering. Fenris paces into view, disheveled, his white hair sticking up all over his head, like he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly. His tattooed fingers are threaded together and he wrings his hands one way and then the other, muttering to himself, eyes wide.

Hawke turns the flashlight on his phone off and knocks quietly on the door jamb to alert Fenris to his presence before he toes the door open. He doesn’t approach the other man, just leans against the wall to the right of the door. “Fenris? What’s wrong?” 

At Hawke’s knock Fenris had frozen, eyes darting to the door. He resumes his pacing upon seeing Hawke, the hand wringing becoming somewhat more vicious. “What isn’t?” he spits, a bitter undercurrent to his words. “I am incomplete and a fool, Hawke. It would be best if you just left me now.”

“I can come back in the morning, if you’d prefer,” Hawke obliges. But that seems to be the wrong thing to say as Fenris growls loudly, flinging his hands apart to dash them through his hair and grab chunks of it by the roots.

“You misunderstand! You...us… I am not a whole person. I should not be yours.” His green eyes come up suddenly to bore into Hawke. Oh. Fenris’s quick answer at Anders’s clinic suddenly makes a whole lot more sense. Hawke had assumed, at the time, that Fenris answered that way simply because it was the most expedient way of moving the conversation along. However...

“Fenris, do you consider us boyfriends?” Hawke asks slowly, trying for a level tone despite the thoughts flooding through his mind. He’s not successful.

Fenris's hands fall out of his hair and he halts, just stands and stares at Hawke. “Yes,” he says and his shoulders slump. “I apologize for my presumption. I should not have assumed to know your mind. I am sorry.” And then he takes a step backward, drops his eyes to the floor, and bows his head.

“Ah, fuck.” Hawke pushes off the wall and looks at Fenris who doesn’t raise his gaze. “Your ex is one twisted piece of work,” he mutters. This is nothing he’s experienced before, nothing he knows how to deal with. None of his exes had come from situations like Fenris’s, and though he knows little enough about it, it has been painted in broad enough strokes during their conversations that he can grasp at least the basics. And he knows, theoretically, that it can take a long time to heal from an abusive relationship, if healing, as most people are familiar with it, happens at all. 

Walking carefully over to where Fenris stands, he reaches out and brushes his knuckles down one cheek. Nothing. Fenris doesn’t jerk away from his touch, doesn’t lean into it, but he starts to tremble, just slightly. Hawke withdraws his hand. He’d be lying if he said he weren’t freaking out, just a little bit. He doesn’t know what to do or what to say, or, even, quite exactly what it was that prompted this reaction from Fenris in the first place.

“Shit. Look, Fenris, I’m shit at this. I’ve never had a relationship that lasted longer than a few months so I don’t know what the fuck to do here. I think I’d like to be your boyfriend if you’ll let me, in whatever way you’ll have me, whatever that means to you. If you truly want me to leave I will, but I don’t want to. I want to stay.” Hawke draws a deep breath and lets it out, making a decision and hoping it’s a good one.

He moves one step closer to Fenris, places his hands Fenris’s upper arms, and kisses the top of Fenris’s bowed head. Then he sinks to his knees, sitting back on his heels. He can see Fenris stiffen at that and _really_ hopes he’s made the right choice. He stares between Fenris’s legs at the floor beyond.

“I’m not a whole person either, Fenris. I have too much anger and resentment, I’ve lost too much, and I can’t lose anyone else. I’d go mad. I’m not a good choice for you, but you seem to disagree. You think you’re not a good choice for me, and I disagree.” Here he raises his eyes, seeks out Fenris’s. “I shouldn’t be yours either, yet here we are. I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind since the first day I saw you. I tried so hard to not let you in. But it didn’t work, so I gave in. I can’t resist you and I don’t want to try to again. I will do whatever you want.”

Silence reigns for a minute as Fenris and Hawke stare at each other. When Fenris still doesn’t say anything, Hawke lowers his eyes and nods. He levers himself to standing and turns to walk back out the door.

“Hawke,” Fenris croaks, as Hawke reaches for the door to close it behind him. “Wait. Stay.”

Hawke leaves his hand on the door but turns to face Fenris again. One of Fenris’s arms is outstretched toward him, and Hawke lets go of the door to reach back to Fenris and grab his hand. Fenris’s arm falls like a dead weight, tugging Hawke back to him, and he curls his head into Hawke’s neck when the big man is close enough. “Stay,” he whispers again.

“Whatever you want,” Hawke whispers back, wrapping his arms around Fenris and carding one hand through his hair.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Dawn has barely broken when Hawke wakes. He'd slept the night in Fenris's bed, though neither he nor Fenris got much in the way of rest. Hawke had been the first to wake from a dream and startle the other, but Fenris, when he awoke a little while later, had taken longer to calm down before they could get back to sleep. At that point there wasn't much time left before Hawke knew he had to leave to get back to his house before his shift at the farmers market. He’d gone back to sleep anyway, wanting to stay as much in that moment as possible, where he and Fenris were together and peaceful.

Hawke twitches the blinds partway up and stretches, his usual morning prelude to getting out of bed. A half-asleep Fenris, however, has other ideas about mornings. Any movement Hawke makes toward getting up is met with grumpy sounds and clinging arms and legs. Hawke tries several methods of escape: the slow crawl toward the edge of the bed, the swift jerk away. Finally, carefully, Hawke is able to extricate himself by rolling Fenris one way and himself another. He stands, smooths his clothes, and runs a hand over his hair before leaning down toward Fenris.

“Fenris, I have to go home and get ready for work.”

Fenris mumbles something incoherent, and Hawke repeats his statement, laying a hand on Fenris's shoulder and shaking a little.

“Nnn, don't go.”

“I have to.”

“Nooo.”

“Yeeessss.”

“Nnng.”

Hawke snorts a laugh and places a gentle kiss on Fenris’s forehead. “My dog will kill me if I don't go home.” Fenris humphs and rolls over under the covers. “Enjoy your normal-person Saturday, Fenris, and don't tell me about all the nothing you did.”

From under the covers, Fenris waves a hand. “This is who I'm dating,” Hawke grumbles, “a man who would rather sleep than drive me home so I can feed my dog.”

“Get used to it, Hawke,” Fenris mumbles. “But if you leave without properly kissing me goodbye and closing the blinds, I will not forgive you.”

Hawke reaches under the covers to pull Fenris up and back over to face him, smoothing the sleep-rumpled white hair from his face. “Demanding,” he observes before bending to fit his mouth softly to Fenris's. Fenris hums in agreement, raising a sleepy hand to rest it against Hawke's neck. Finally Hawke breaks away, pushing Fenris back into the bed and pulling the covers around him. Fenris makes small noises of protest but snuggles down into the blankets soon enough, especially once Hawke lowers the shade.

“Goodbye, Fenris. I'll see you tonight.” Hawke turns the lock on the front door as he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought long and hard about whether I wanted to give you guys a cliffhanger and end the chapter before Fenris calls Hawke back...buuuuut I decided against it. Y'all don't deserve that. At least, not after you've waited two weeks for this. Maybe some other time...


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke spends the night and all sorts of things happen

“Fenris?” Hawke asks, the second time he stays the night at the other’s Hightown mansion. He’d had a gig this morning, courtesy of Anso, but nothing that evening since it was a Monday, and still part of his “weekend” from The Hanged Man. Bethany had agreed to come over and feed Cheerio, so Hawke was free to spend longer at Fenris’s than he had on Saturday. Though Fenris still had work in the morning, he had negotiated a later start time.

Hawke stretches out on the shabby couch in the living room, his shirt riding up just a touch, and looks over to where Fenris moves in the kitchen. Having been forcefully ejected a few minutes ago, Hawke is now making himself useful as decoration, and he grins when Fenris sneaks a look.

“Yes, Hawke?”

“Why didn’t you and Anders work as roommates?”

Fenris chuckles and leans over to place something in the oven, obscuring him from Hawke’s view below the half wall that separates the kitchen from the living room. He sets the timer on the oven and comes over to sit in the chair next to Hawke’s head. Slinging his legs over the opposite arm of the chair, he reaches over to lay a hand on Hawke’s hair.

“He would eat my food,” Fenris begins, with a deep breath that tells Hawke this is going to be a long list of grievances.

“What a dick!” Hawke interjects, pleased when Fenris snorts a laugh.

“Indeed. And without asking. Scrubs everywhere, _everywhere_ , and not picked up or cleaned until I said something. Even then,” Fenris muses, “I’m not sure he ever did laundry, just shoved the piles somewhere I couldn’t see.” Hawke laughs, mostly because he knows that can’t be completely true. Anders’s scrubs that day they visited him in Darktown had been positively threadbare, and that only came from excessive wearing and washing. He’d be willing to bet Anders had but a few sets that he wore over and over until they died and that Fenris was a sensitive person when it came to piles of clothes around the house. Piles of other things didn’t seem to bother him at all, however, since it seemed that Fenris didn’t own a bookcase and merely piled all his books in stacks around the mansion. And there were a _lot_ of stacks.

“He would fall asleep, there in the foyer.” Fenris waves a hand to the next room and the rather large foyer.

“On the floor?”

“Occasionally. Other times on the benches as he removed his shoes. A time or two he made it as far as the stairs. Sometimes it did seem as though he simply opened the door, stepped in, and fell over so that I would trip on him.”

Hawke draws a finger in an X over his heart. “I promise I always make it at least to the couch.”

“All of that I probably could have lived with, for a while longer anyway.” Hawke raises one black eyebrow and waits for Fenris to continue. “Anders is political. He has firm beliefs on every issue, and he will let you know what they are, debate you over the finer points.” Fenris draws a slow breath through his nose. “Write _manifestos_ on his most fervent beliefs. One of which we have always and will always disagree on.” The second of Hawke’s eyebrows joins the first.

“He’s not a vegan, is he?”

Fenris snorts. “He is, actually.”

“Maker, nooo!” Hawke yells until Fenris whacks him lightly on the head.

“I could have handled anything. Anything,” he repeats at Hawke’s skeptical gaze. “He wasn’t often home when I was so it was easy to avoid him if I wished. No, the thing that made him absolutely untenable as a roommate is his belief that the Tevinter government has the right way of things. That the senate is more democratic and ensures that the best good is done for the citizens represented.” There is a bitterness in Fenris’s voice that Hawke hadn’t heard before now, something larger than the notes that had crept in during conversations past. This is full-bodied and visceral, as though it is something that sings throughout Fenris’s nervous system and can only be released through his words.

“He does not believe that such a system could fall to corruption, that a single ruler system like the viscount here is much easier to sway. But he has not been there, he has not seen, he does not _know._ I tried to tell him about Seheron, how this “incorruptible” senate passed laws to limit what we can do, where we can go, who we can be, simply based on the country of our birth and the color of our skin.” He raises his arms then lets them drop to his sides. “He would not listen. Insisted I had let a “few bad experiences” color my perception of things. As if I were the only one experiencing such things, as though it weren’t my entire race!”

Fenris takes a deep breath, releasing it in a shaky exhale. “He told me I was just lashing out against Dan by attacking the institution he is a part of.”

Hawke whistles, low and soft. “What a dick.”

“Indeed.” One side of Fenris’s mouth tips upward in a small smile.

“So,” Hawke asks, stretching again on the couch and reaching for Fenris’s hand. “What’s for dinner?” Fenris laughs and lets Hawke squeeze his hand briefly. “Is it traditional Tevinter fare? Or have you spent too long among the heathens here?” A derisive snort from Fenris.

“ ‘Traditional Tevinter fare’ consists of fish, fish, and more fish. And a particularly nasty concoction they call garum and have the gall to insist is a fish sauce.” Fenris wrinkles his nose. “Vile. So no, we are not having that. Seheron has much more reasonable food. All will be revealed in time.”

Hawke groans and rolls over on the couch, facing away from Fenris. “You’re terrible.”

“Mm, so I’ve been led to believe.” Fenris’s tone is mild, but something in it makes Hawke roll back over.

“Fenris.”

“It’s fine, Hawke.”

“No. It’s not. I’m not him. I don’t want to be him. I don’t want to hurt you Fenris.” Hawke pauses. “I’ll do better.”

Fenris considers this for a minute, locking his green eyes on Hawke’s brown. Eventually he nods and reaches out to card his fingers once through Hawke’s dreadlocks before getting up and returning to the kitchen.

Dinner is simple: a whole roast chicken with some vegetables and a plate of bread and cheese. And wine. “Not Aggregio,” Fenris says as he lifts the decanter, “but suitable.” Fenris seems to have a taste for fine wines, as he rattles off an explanation of the two wines’ differences, something about barrels and notes of this or that. Hawke just nods along. He cares nothing for wine but he’ll be damned if he’ll spoil Fenris’s fun. And Fenris does look to be enjoying himself, his face lit up, eyes just slightly wide, lips twitched upward as he pours the wine into two glasses and twirls one before sniffing it and taking a sip. Hawke mirrors Fenris and finds that the suitable wine doesn’t taste much different than the Aggregio to his palate, but he doesn’t say so to Fenris.

“How did you learn so much about wine?” he asks instead, pulling apart some chicken with his fork. “I barely know anything.”

Fenris shrugs eloquently. “There were many things Dan wished me to do for him while we were together. One was impress his dinner guests with my skills as a sommelier. People in his circles did not expect a Seheron to be more well-versed than they when it came to wine, and Dan would take advantage of how that unbalanced them. He made many beneficial deals over a glass of wine.”

He looks up to see Hawke watching him, a befuddled expression on his face, mouth hanging half-open as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t figure out what. Fenris smiles, a small, somewhat sad smile. “It is one thing from that life I have reclaimed for myself, Hawke. I now find enjoyment where before I felt humiliation. It is a good thing. I will not let Dan take any more of my life from me.” Hawke nods at that, understanding at least a little of that feeling, and the two of them tuck in to the food, the conversation shifting to lighter topics, like Fenris’s newest books from the library (though he has a tendency to read memoirs and other nonfiction that Hawke finds boring) and plans for the upcoming week.

“Clear your schedule on the eleventh,” Fenris says, as he reaches for Hawke’s plate to clear it from the table after they’ve eaten.

“Why?” Hawke grabs the serving dishes and follows Fenris to the kitchen.

“Do I have to have a reason? I’d just like to spend the day with you.” As acceptable a reason as any, Hawke figures, placing the dishes in the sink, especially now that they’ve finally spoken to each other about what they are. That particular day is just less than a week away, so he might be fine if he lets Meeran know now that he won’t be able to work the festival he’s scheduled for. He’ll also probably have to work something double to make up for it, but it’s nothing he hasn’t done before.

"Sure. Let me call Meeran and get out of work. I can’t make this a habit, though,” he yells over his shoulder as he heads out to the room with all the stairs for a little bit of privacy. Meeran is disappointed Hawke won’t be able to make it but suspiciously accommodating in letting him off, and Hawke returns to the kitchen, eyes narrowed.

“What is going on Sunday?” he asks, folding his arms and leaning a hip against the counter. Fenris is rinsing the dishes in the sink and looks up at him innocently. Hawke scowls. “Meeran didn’t even threaten to put me on the shit list for calling off this close to a gig that size. What are you planning and how did you get him to come around?”

“Varric did it.” Fenris drops the innocent act and instead grins like a wolf, pinning Hawke to the counter with his gaze. “I heard tell it will be your birthday on the twelfth and had to do something.” Hawke feels very much like he’s been caught in some sort of trap and shifts uncomfortably.

“And I suppose Isabela and Merrill are in on it.”

“Zevran, too,” Fenris confirms.

“I’ll kill them all.”

Fenris just laughs and loads the dishwasher. Hawke scowls until Fenris finishes with the dishes and pads over to hop up on the counter next to him, lean over, and press a line of kisses from his temple down to his jaw. “Sulk later,” he says and tugs at Hawke’s sleeves to angle him properly against his body before kissing him again.

As if Hawke were sulking… But he obeys Fenris’s unspoken commands and slots himself between Fenris’s lean, jean-clad legs, rewarded by Fenris wrapping one around his waist, the other around one of Hawke’s own legs, foot angled just so to keep hold. Hawke runs his right hand down the leg around his waist, his other hand gripping Fenris’s head and holding it still so he can kiss him ruthlessly, his tongue invading every corner of Fenris’s mouth. In his hands, Fenris relaxes, goes limp, even as he kisses Hawke back with much the same fervor.

Hawke bites hard on Fenris’s lip, pulling on it. “Same question,” he says, abandoning lips to nuzzle down the lines that mark Fenris’s throat, following his track with the fingers of the hand that he’s moved from Fenris’s head. “How much of me do you want tonight?” Fenris, his head thrown back against the cabinet, only gasps for breath as Hawke bites and tongues at a spot in the hollow of his clavicle and tightens his legs around Hawke. Whimpers when Hawke pulls slightly away.

“Fenris,” Hawke chides lightly. “I need an answer.”

Fenris rolls his head around on his shoulders and looks up at Hawke, his half-lidded eyes a dark green. “I want,” he says, his words falling like molten gravel on Hawke’s ears, “you to shut up and blow me.” Hawke grins and darts forward to capture Fenris’s lips again, rumbling his pleasure. He shifts one hand to slide it under the other man and hoists Fenris up, making sure both legs are wrapped around him securely before they travel out of the kitchen and back to the living room couch.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

This time it’s not a nightmare that wakes Hawke up in the wee hours of the morning, but the stuff nightmares are made of. His phone rings quietly in his pants pocket, over there on the floor, and he slips out of bed to grab it. Fenris is much easier to escape when he’s passed out.

“Mother? What’s wrong?” Fenris’s bed is shoved into an alcove in his room, but he has a couple armchairs pulled near the gas fireplace on the longest wall and Hawke sits gingerly on the edge of one. His mother doesn’t call in the middle of the night for no reason, despite her drinking, and the Hawke family has really only ever experienced tragedies at this hour. A policewoman woke them up to tell them about Malcolm near 1:00 am, and though Carver’s death had occurred around 8:00 pm, Hawke had finally made it home to his mother with the news by 2:00. 

All he can hear on the other end of the phone is crying. “Mother!” he hisses, and glances over to the bed to see if he’s woken Fenris. The mass of white hair sticking out of the blankets shifts slightly and lies still. Good.

More sobbing, some hiccuping, and in the midst of all that he catches the word “Bethany.” A fear like ice spreads through his veins and suddenly he can’t stay seated. Hawke paces from the armchair to the door of the room and back, trying to get more information from his mother but receiving only tears. Finally he can’t take it anymore and exits the room to stand out on the landing.

“Mother!” he snaps, louder than he’d intended. “You are not helping. What the hell is going on? What’s happened to Bethany?” A wail from his mother, and he resists the urge to throw his phone across the room. “Where is she? What happened?”

That something would happen to Bethany has been Hawke’s worst fear since she was born and that fear only intensified once Malcolm and Carver died. Leandra, Hawke knew, couldn’t handle losing her only daughter, and would likely backslide farther than she has already and end up drinking herself to death. Hawke is positive that even his friendship with Aveline wouldn’t be enough to get him out of the trouble he would start if someone hurt, or killed, his baby sister. It wasn’t for nothing that year he worked with Meeran and, on a rare occasion, Athenril, doing odd jobs and learning the city and who ran in it. He could be a very dangerous man if he put his mind to it.

Leandra falls silent on the other end, and Hawke has to pull the phone away from his ear to make sure the call is still connected. When he puts it back, he can hear a small commotion in the background. “Mother, what—”

“I’m sorry, mother can’t come to the phone right now.” Bethany’s voice.

“Bethany?” Hawke slumps against the rail of the first set of stairs. “What the fuck happened? Why was mother calling me at…whatever the hell hour this is!” He hadn’t actually looked at the clock when he picked up the phone. 2:45 it says helpfully when he checks now.

Bethany makes a dismissive noise and Hawke knows she just tossed her hair over her shoulder. It’s what she does when she wants to brush something off as inconsequential when it truly matters. “I told her not to call you but she wouldn’t listen.”

“Does she ever?” Bethany laughs. Hawke closes his eyes and savors that sound he’d been terrified he might have lost forever. “You still have to tell me what happened.”

“Can’t you spare the big brother routine?” Bethany whines. “I’m fine, that’s all that matters.”

“Absolutely not, Beth. You’ll tell me what happened or—”

“Or you’ll walk over to the house and make me?” Bethany finishes his threat for him, sounding unimpressed. Hawke glowers.

“Yes.”

“Ugh, fine. But only because I don’t want to make you walk over at this time of night.” She takes a breath in, holds it, lets it out. It’s still another minute before she speaks. “I got mugged walking home from the studio.”

“ _What?! _”__

__“It’s not as bad as it sounds—”_ _

__“Precisely _how_ is it not as bad as it sounds, Bethany? Because it sounds pretty fucking bad. Did they hurt you? Did you get their faces? Have you called Aveline?”_ _

__“This is why I told mother not to call you!” He can hear Bethany on the other end pacing around and tapping on things. She’s probably in her room, having wrested the phone from their mother and fled there for privacy. Leandra is likely in the kitchen with a bottle of wine, too distraught to sleep. “They didn’t hurt me, OK? Just demanded I give them all my money so I handed over my bag and they went away. Ugh! There was like $500 worth of brushes in that bag!”_ _

__Despite himself, Hawke laughs. If the thing Bethany is worried about is her paintbrushes, the incident was probably pretty minor. He’s pissed it happened to her in the first place, and he _will_ make her go talk to Aveline and submit a statement and description of the individuals, but he’s just glad that’s as rough as it got._ _

__“I’ll buy you new ones,” he promises._ _

__“Will you replace my canvases, too?” He can hear Bethany perk up at that. He shakes his head, smiling._ _

__“Sure. Make me a list of what was in there and I’ll see what I can do. But you might be getting it for Christmas.” The outrage on the other end is priceless and he laughs again. “Kidding, kidding. As soon as I can get it you’ll have it. Pinky swear. But you have to promise me something.”_ _

__“What?” She sounds wary._ _

__“Don’t walk home by yourself at night. Isn’t there someone at the studio who can give you a ride? Orsino, maybe, or Ella?”_ _

__“They usually leave before I want to, though, and Orsino’s kind of creepy.”_ _

__“Bethany…”_ _

__“OK, fine. I’ll cut my workdays short and get a ride home from Ella. Happy?”_ _

__“Yes. Now get some sleep. Though you should probably check on mother first, make sure she doesn’t drown.” Hawke doesn’t envy Bethany the position of being the one to live with their mother, to take care of her when she’s had a few too many, but since Leandra has a habit of blaming Hawke for everything, they’d both felt it was best that he not stay with them._ _

__Bethany sighs. “You’re right. Go back to sleep yourself. Love you, brother.”_ _

__“You too, sis.”_ _

__He hangs up and finally feels the last of the fear seep out of his body. Bethany’s OK. Turning, he spots Fenris leaning against the door to the room, arms crossed and hair mussed from sleep though his eyes are open and alert._ _

__“What’s wrong?” Fenris asks, backing up to let Hawke in the room._ _

__“Did I wake you?” Hawke says instead of answering, taking a step toward Fenris with his arms opening._ _

__Fenris backs away a step and holds one hand up, palm out, in front of his chest. He shakes his head. “I...just woke up.” Hawke cocks his head, confused, but doesn’t make another move forward. “I dreamed,” is all Fenris says for explanation. But Hawke nods and goes to sit in one of the armchairs, telling Fenris about what had happened with Bethany. Fenris follows after a beat, perching on the other chair._ _

__From what Fenris said, or didn’t say, Hawke knows he woke from a nightmare while Hawke was out of the room. The last time he had stayed the night the same thing had happened, Fenris jerking upright, gasping, eyes wide. Hawke doesn’t yet know the contents of these dreams but he can lay a guess. After waking, Fenris had refused to let Hawke touch him in any way, and they’d sat at opposite ends of the bed, just talking, until Fenris felt calmer and they went back to sleep on different sides of the bed. Hawke settles into his chair, expecting a similar course of events tonight._ _

__When they finally get back to bed, Hawke rolls onto his side near the edge, allowing Fenris the freedom to sleep as close to or far from Hawke as he wishes. The mattress wiggles as Fenris moves around, stops, wiggles some more. And then as Hawke is about to drop back off to sleep, Fenris’s back presses up lightly against his._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: when Fenris talks about Tevinter food being a lot of fish, he's not wrong (at least not if you're basing Tevinter heavily on the Romans which, come on, they totally are). I had a fun conversation with my sister the junior museum records keeper about what the Romans would have eaten and laughed myself silly when it was mostly fish. So that worked out perfectly for my purposes...
> 
> More fun things to come in the next chapter, I promise. Actual, real fun things.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke gets his surprise

Hawke is on edge the entire day Saturday, even though he knows whatever it is Fenris has planned is for Sunday. He’s just never been particularly good with surprises. While one part of his mind knows that this is Fenris and Fenris wouldn’t plan something harmful, the other part insists that since all the surprises Hawke has had in his life up to this point have been bad (and involving death), this one is bound to follow trend. 

He spends his shift at the farmers market scowling, arms crossed, lifting one foot and then the other to tap his toes against the ground.

He spends his time at home between the farmers market and The Hanged Man washing his feet and applying a soothing cream to the abused toes.

Seated on his stool at The Hanged Man, he kicks one heel back against the bar until Isabela comes over, flicks a towel at him, and says, “So help me Hawke, if you do not stop that this instant I will personally strangle you and frame Zevran.” Zevran looks up from the other end of the bar and places a shocked hand over his heart. Isabela blows him a kiss.

“I could live with that,” Hawke replies absently, his foot still whumping rhythmically against the bar.

“You’d be dead, idiot.” She reaches over the bar to whack him on the head. “Now stop hitting my bar.”

“S’not your bar,” Hawke grumps, but he desists and instead taps his fingers against the side of his drink. Isabela narrows her eyes at that but says nothing and sashays back to help the customers waiting at the other end. She places a hand on Zevran’s shoulder blade and whispers in his ear, and after that they take it in turns to keep an eye on Hawke until Fenris comes in and places one hand gently on top of Hawke’s tapping one. Not hard enough to prevent Hawke from continuing, just enough to let him know that Fenris is there. Hawke had been staring off into space, not reacting when Fenris took the stool next to him.

Hawke’s eyebrows draw together in confusion as he comes back to himself to see Fenris there, watching him with mild green eyes creased with worry. “What’s wrong?” Fenris asks, his thumb brushing against Hawke’s suddenly stilled hand. Hawke sighs, shakes his head, and drags his other hand across his face. “Tell me, Hawke.”

It’s five minutes before Hawke answers. Fenris orders a drink and simply sits, waiting, one hand still on Hawke’s, the other alternating between his phone and glass of wine. He exchanges pleasantries with Zevran and nods to Isabela to indicate that he’ll take care of Hawke. She spares Hawke another glance then smiles gratefully at Fenris before leaving them alone.

“I hate surprises.”

Fenris looks at Hawke, tilting his head slightly to one side. When Hawke doesn’t elaborate, Fenris asks, “Tomorrow?”

Hawke heaves a breath and nods reluctantly. “I’ve not...experienced any good surprises.” 

Fenris considers this for a moment then nods. “I do not wish to cause you undue stress. I have arranged for a card game.”

All of Hawke’s breath comes out in a short, disbelieving laugh and he shakes his head. “You’re serious? Just cards?” Fenris shrugs his affirmation and Hawke laughs again. “Fuck.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“Now I know it’s been a while since you played with us, Hawke. Do I need to remind you of the rules?” Varric leans back in his chair as he shuffles. At the other end of the table, Isabela snickers into her drink. Merrill, next to her, looks embarrassed and tries to hush her. On Isabela’s other side, Zevran grins. Fenris does his best not to look too amused as Hawke groans and buries his head in his hands.

“Fuck you, Varric.”

“I know I’m irresistible, Hawke, but you’re really not my type.”

“I’m everyone’s type,” Hawke snipes back, raising his head as Varric starts to deal the cards. Varric snorts, Fenris chuckles, and Zevran and Isabela make appreciative noises complete with lecherous stares. Aveline shakes her head. Merrill just turns beet red and examines her face-down card very carefully.

Varric finishes the deal, and Hawke looks at his cards. Face-up: the black Divine of swords. Face-down: a three of cups. Not his best starting hand and being first to bet means he has to bid something. He tosses a five chip to the middle of the table and avoids Varric’s knowing smirk. The short bastard has an empress face-up. Hawke’s not sure if Varric knows how to stack the deck but wouldn’t put it completely past him. The man does claim he can count cards.

“Do they play Wicked Grace in Tevinter?” Isabela asks as Fenris matches Hawke’s bid. He has an eight of crowns facing; Hawke would lay odds to a high-value royal being his down card.

“Yes, though the rules are not quite the same. For instance, a black Divine always trumps a white.”

“Oh, you play by heathen rules!” Merrill exclaims excitedly then claps a hand over her mouth as everyone turns to stare at her. “What did I say?”

Isabela giggles so hard she can’t say anything so Aveline, sighing and looking somewhat put upon, explains, “It’s not called ‘heathen rules’ in Tevinter, Merrill. They’re simply the rules. Marchers just like to insult other countries.”

Hawke snorts. “Marchers and Orlesians and Fereldens, you mean.”

“And Antivans,” Zevran adds, tossing in his money.

“Rivainis, too.” Isabela’s chip joins the rest.

“Oh,” says Merrill as she folds on a facing two of crowns.

“Don’t worry, Daisy,” Varric reassures her as Aveline’s chip joins the center pile and he puts in his own. “It doesn’t look like Broody minds.”

Fenris smiles a little and nods. “I find it a humorous description.” Merrill beams at him.

Varris burns the top card of the deck then deals one face-up to the table. A while Divine. Hawke drops his head with a loud _thunk_ and yells, “Fold!” Fenris pats his head gently. Hawke growls but leans into the touch.

“Raise ten.” From face-down on the table, Hawke grumbles and Fenris chuckles at him. Zevran folds, but Isabela, Aveline, and Varric match, and another card, the seven of cups, is placed face-up on the table.

Fenris checks and Zevran follows suit. Isabela tosses fifteen into the middle of the table and cackles at the upset noise Aveline makes, though she matches. 

“You haven’t got shit, Rivaini,” Varric says, matching. Isabela waggles her eyebrows at him as Fenris and Zevran push in their chips. He sets another face-up card on the table, the prince of staffs. Hawke pushes away from the table in disgust as Fenris raises another ten to go make himself a drink.

They’re playing at Varric’s place as they always had years ago when Hawke still attended these. He actually doesn’t know for sure if they still play on Sundays or if they had all slowly fallen out after he left. His guess is they’ve continued, though perhaps not every week. His friends are the kind to keep traditions, however strange, silly, or stupid. Not that Sunday cards is stupid, he supposes. It’s actually somewhat calming, being back in a familiar place doing familiar things, even if it has been a year since he was here.

Varric’s apartment is right above The Hanged Man, though not accessible through the bar for security reasons. There’s a rickety metal staircase out back that leads to Varric’s front/back porch and front/back door. As it’s the only door to the place, Varric calls it the front door. Since it’s on the back of the building, most of the rest of them call it the back door. Merrill likes to call it the “frack” or “bant” door, though usually only when she’s had a few to drink.

The liquor cabinet is on the other side of the kitchen, and Hawke can’t make out the conversation at the table from there. He grabs a few bottles, rifles through the fridge for mixers, and crafts himself a drink. It’s true he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing, there is a reason Isabela and Zevran tend bar and he doesn’t, but he’s found a few concoctions that he can make himself. After a moment’s thought, he mixes one for Fenris, though he doesn’t know if the man drinks anything besides wine. Now’s as good a time as any to find out, he supposes, and heads back to the table.

“It’s a good thing you have Fenris,” Isabela says as he sits back down and sets the drinks on the table. The cards have been taken away and Varric’s shuffling again. Fenris appears to have more chips than the rest of them.

“Oh?” 

“Yes, otherwise it would be sad if you had to leave after losing all your money. At least Fenris can make some of it back.”

“You’re assuming I’ll share,” Fenris says, then looks at Hawke with laughter in his eyes.

Hawke slides the drink he made for Fenris farther away from him. “And to think I thought we were in this together.”

“Oh no, sweetheart,” Isabela chimes in. “Cards are every man for himself. I’m glad to see Fenris understands this.” Fenris inclines his head her direction with a little smile.

“Really, my good man, your time away from us must have been longer than it seems for you to have forgotten this.” Hawke scowls at Zevran who smiles and shrugs.

“I think it’s sweet,” Merrill says.

“Indeed it is, kitten.” Isabela kisses her on the cheek. 

“What’s sweet?” Hawke asks warily. 

“That you’re so infatuated with Fenris you forgot the primary rule of cards, of course!” Merrill informs him. “You never did this with anyone else you brought to Wicked Grace night.”

“Right. That’s far enough for this conversation. Varric, deal the cards.” 

Varric favors Hawke with an openly contemplative look but does deal out the next round of cards. At some point during the round, Fenris sneaks his drink back from Hawke, who had taken his hand off it to speak expressively to Isabela about the replacement bartenders they have downstairs tonight. Hawke doesn’t notice the drink has moved until the end of the round when he says something to Fenris and looks over to see him drinking calmly out of the glass. He mutters something about not making Fenris a refill.

Varric calls a halt to gameplay at 8:00 pm, announcing that he’s ordering food and that they’ll all wait and eat like civilized people before continuing on with cards. Fenris’s pile of chips is the largest, though Isabela has amassed her own quiet fortune, as well. Hawke isn’t too far behind them, having acquitted himself better in the last few hands than in the first round. Merrill is in what looks like last place, with Zevran, Varric, and Aveline somewhere in the middle.

Hawke catches Aveline’s eye and jerks his head up and away from the table. She gets up to follow him down a hallway, and they step into one of Varric’s guest rooms. “Has Bethany been in to see you?” Hawke asks, beginning to pace the length of the room.

“She came in the next afternoon.”

“And did you—”

“I did my job, Hawke,” Aveline interrupts. “We took her statement and brought in a sketch artist to take their descriptions.”

“And?”

“And what, Hawke?”

“Have you caught them yet? How many people are on this?”

Aveline’s eyebrows climb so high they merge with her hairline. “No one is _on this._ My officers all have their duties. They have been given the sketch and will be on the lookout, but there is no one I can spare to solely wander around hoping to catch these men. The sketches have been posted to wanted boards with the tipline number.” At Hawke’s outraged face, Aveline holds up a hand to forestall any comment. “It is as much as I do for any other case like this, Hawke. I cannot always do more simply because you wish me to.”

Damn it all. Hawke knows she’s right, hates that she is, and barely keeps himself from punching a hole in Varric’s wall anyway. 

“I’ll keep you updated,” Aveline tells him.

“Right. Thanks.” When Hawke shows no sign of stopping his pacing, Aveline turns and leaves the room by herself. After a few minutes, when he’s sure she’s gone back to the others, Hawke pulls his phone from his pocket and dials a number he hasn’t used in years. It goes straight to voicemail.

“Hey, it’s me. Can you drop by around two in the afternoon? There’s a couple of guys I want you to meet face-to-face. You know where to find me.”

Fenris, waiting in the hallway, gives Hawke a shrewd look when he finally exits the room. “Were you…”

“No.”

“I see.”

The food delivery comes shortly thereafter, and in typical Sunday night cards tradition, they all sit on the couches in Varric’s living room with chopsticks and pass the takeout boxes around and around. Fenris at first looks confused about the lack of plates or personal boxes but quickly joins in the mayhem. Though he doesn’t speak as much as anyone else, Fenris seems content whenever Hawke looks over at him, and for that he’s glad.

Aveline managed to get the armchair, which means that Fenris and Hawke are sharing one couch with Varric while Isabela snuggles up with Zevran and Merrill on the other. Hawke remembers being more comfortable the last time he played cards here, but since that was due to only having to share the couch with one other person, he’ll accept it. Fenris’s presence more than makes up for any discomfort. Fenris seems to feel the same way, as he turns sideways on the couch and curls his legs into Hawke’s lap. It doesn’t really create more room but it’s nice, and Hawke settles one arm over Fenris’s shoulder and down his back.

Varric announces it’s time for more cards when Isabela begins to rank her fellow Hanged Man employees. Hawke laughs on his way to the kitchen as he hears Varric trying to console Isabela, who really wanted to get through her ranking, by saying, “Now Rivaini, you know I can’t have favorites. And if I know who your favorites are, it just wouldn’t be fair.”

Fenris looks up at Hawke as he sets the drinks he was carrying down. “Not a word,” Hawke says, sliding one of the glasses to Fenris, who accepts his refill with a smile. Varric deals out the cards and they begin again.

“You know, Varric, for someone who claims to count cards, you think you’d be doing better,” Hawke says later, somewhere in his third drink.

Varric laughs, folding his current hand. “If I won all the time, it wouldn’t be fair to the rest of you.”

“So you, what, throw some hands?”

“Something like that.”

Hawke snorts and raises, though he only has a nine of crowns facing and a prince of cups down. Both empresses are on the table, though, and that gives him a decent hand. Not a winning one, it appears, after the last table card is a viscount and Fenris reveals a Divine face down to his facing three, creating a perfect 74, and rakes the chips in.

Isabela squawks. “What?! I could swear you were bluffing! That face is impenetrable!!” Her only response from Fenris is a serene smile, and Merrill pats her on the shoulder as she heaves giant fake sobs. In retaliation, during the next hand she flashes Fenris when he glances her direction as he’s considering his bid. That round goes to Isabela, who preens as she gathers her chips. Unfortunately it doesn’t work a second time. Or a third, but you can’t fault a girl for trying. 

As he works through his fourth drink, Hawke can’t seem to win a single hand though he bids on everything he possibly can. He shushes Fenris when the man tries to give him advice, and ups the bid on his facing five of staffs and down seven of swords. Surely, _one_ of these hands will end up working out.

None of them, as it turns out, end up working. Fenris carries the night, and Varric deals out the cash they all put up at the beginning of the evening. Playing without any real stakes is for chumps, Isabela tells Fenris, as she pockets her share of the spoils down her shirt. She leaves with Merrill on one arm and Zevran on the other and vague waving to Hawke when he reminds her to let him know when they get home. Aveline splits shortly after, though not before favoring Hawke with a look that feels too close to pity for his tastes.

Varric starts to gather up the glasses from the table. “So Hawke, will you be putting in a regular appearance again now? Not that this wasn’t a grand old one-night stand.”

“You know I work, Varric.” Hawke twists in his chair so he can stay facing Varric as he moves to the kitchen. “Not that this wasn’t fun.”

“Hawke. _Hawke._ You can’t be trying to tell me you need to make more money. I happen to know exactly how much you make.”

“You can’t—”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Varric interrupts. “I happen to—”

“Know someone,” Hawke finishes with him. “Of course.”

Varric shrugs. “It’s what I do.”

“I thought you ran a bar,” Hawke counters. “Speaking of…”

“The bar?”

“People. Have you heard anything about what I asked you a few weeks ago?”

Varric pauses in his rinsing of the dishes and casts a significant glance toward Fenris. Hawke sighs, feeling the alcohol in his brain as he shakes his head.

“He won’t leave and he has supernatural hearing anyway, so you may as well tell me.” Fenris huffs slightly in the chair next to Hawke but says nothing.

“It’s nothing concrete, mind, but word on the street has it the Templars are gearing up for something big. There have been more territory skirmishes in the last month than usual. That attack two months ago was just the one that made the most damage and caught media attention. They’re flying as far under the radar as they can.”

“What could they be up to?” Hawke asks aloud, his eyes unfocusing as he rubs his beard and considers.

“Who knows?” Varric answers. “But it ain’t gonna be pretty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo buddy, I was almost late with this chapter because I had to figure out rules for Wicked Grace! (I say had to but I really kind of wanted to and it took a while.)
> 
> Here's the rundown: four suits (crowns, cups, swords, staffs), three royals per suit (prince[ess], viscount[ess], emperor/empress; gender depends on suit), two Divines (one black, one white) per suit. Divines of opposite color net negative points. It's a combination between blackjack and hold 'em.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke confronts Fenris about something that's bothering him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohmygodyouguys I'm sorry this chapter is late! My part-time job just suddenly pushed my hours up to near full-time this week and last, so all my extra chapter-writing time is spent slodging at retail. But here it is and I'll do what I can to get the next one up on Monday, though it may be late again too. I'm trying NaNo this year to help me write, so we'll see...

Fenris refuses to stay the night at Hawke’s house the next three times he asks, each time saying simply that he can’t. Hawke assumes it has something to do with work and the relative positions of their houses in relation to wherever it is Fenris spends his 9:00-5:00, and so he’s willing to let it go, though he does wish that just once they could sleep in _his_ bed at _his_ house. Fenris’s place is nice, of course it’s nice, it’s in Hightown, but it’s not home for him. Being away from home several nights of the week is beginning to take its toll on him, and his dog isn’t super pleased about it either. One of these days Hawke will ask Fenris if Cheerio can stay over too, but he’s not sure if they’re at that point in their relationship yet. Bringing the dog into things is a big step.

Bethany has been pretty cool about coming over to feed the dog and take him on any walks Hawke can’t, though she’s also been getting pretty annoying with her pestering. If he has to ask her to watch the dog one more time, she’s going to outright demand to meet Fenris, and Hawke knows he isn’t ready for the family meet-and-greet. It’s only been a few months, after all, and not even that long since they became “official.” That and he just really doesn’t want to spend any more awkward time with his mother than he has to. She had never quite understood how he could date more than one gender and wasn’t necessarily pleased by the idea that he could settle down with someone and not be able to biologically reproduce. It isn’t anything that bothers Hawke: he doesn’t want children anyway. Leandra, on the other hand, has enough of a biological grandmother clock to make pointed remarks to both him and Bethany about that eventuality. She hadn’t been amused when he presented Cheerio to her as her granddog.

Fenris though… Hawke realizes that he has no idea what Fenris’s thoughts are on matters like these, if, like Hawke, he would be content with fur-children or if he would prefer to adopt a real child. Somehow this now seems like a huge oversight in their conversations to this point though he’s not sure why. It’s not like they’re there yet, considering the dog thing and the sleeping over thing.

He asks Fenris again on Friday night amid the bustle and murmur of a full bar. A bar that is, thankfully, behaving itself rather well tonight. Fenris’s answer is, predictably, an apologetic face and an, “I can’t.”

“Saturday night, then?” Because perhaps it’s that Fenris is not prepared to spend a night and doesn’t want to go home to grab everything and then return. Perhaps Hawke simply has shitty timing very time he asks. 

But Fenris worries at his lower lip and glances away, and that gives Hawke enough of an answer that he doesn’t even need to hear Fenris say, “I’m sorry, Hawke, I—I can’t.”

“Why?” Hawke demands, leaning forward.

“What?”

“Why the fuck can’t you?” Fenris looks startled at the harsh note in Hawke’s voice and the finger Hawke jabs toward him. But really, five times of asking, only to get the same answer, the same non-explanatory words, is just a little much for Hawke. “If there’s something wrong with me, my house, or my dog, I’d appreciate it if you just fucking told me, Fenris.”

Confusion plays over Fenris’s face. “I… It is not you.”

“Then what the fuck is it? Because from here it really seems like it’s something to do with me since you refuse to stay at _my_ house.” Hawke leans back, reaches for his glass, and takes a drink.

Fenris’s mouth opens and closes a couple times, but nothing comes out. He blinks and shakes his head as if to clear it but still can’t manage to speak. He avoids Hawke’s eyes and focuses on his glass of wine. Beside him, Hawke grumbles out a breath and pushes off his stool to walk the floor. Fenris remains seated, eyes on his wine, until Hawke returns. He stays in the same position as Hawke humphs and grumps, shifting constantly on his stool. Finally he sighs, his head dropping forward an inch. On his stool, Hawke freezes.

“I can’t sleep,” Fenris starts and Hawke snorts.

“No shit.”

“Hawke.” Fenris’s tone is sharp and cutting. “Let me finish.” His eyes, still fixed on his drink, miss the look of open surprise that crosses Hawke’s face.

“I can’t sleep in other people’s beds.” His voice softens a little, though it still carries a hard edge Hawke hasn’t heard before. It’s mostly directed at him, Hawke knows, though he can’t bring himself to feel sorry about it.

“I… There were…” Fenris takes a breath, looks up from his wine, and stares at a spot on the wall below the top shelf bottles. He seems to evaluate whether he wants to continue talking, his eyes darting from the spot on the wall to Hawke and back to the spot, but takes Hawke’s continued silence, despite some tapping from his fingers on the bar top, as a good sign.

“There were times in our relationship that Dan requested I...spend time with other members of the senate for political benefit. These liaisons never lasted long, a night, a week. And I never spent the night, never slept beside them. Because the few times that I forgot myself and fell asleep, on accident or on purpose, Dan made sure to remind me. I didn’t sleep well for years, afraid that I would be punished for sleeping, even when I slept in Dan’s bed in case that wasn’t where I should be. 

“It took me a long time to learn how to sleep again. I still have issues, thank you for reminding me, and I still cannot sleep in any bed other than mine. That, Hawke, is why I can’t.” Fenris’s eyes close, though he’s still gazing toward the wall. Hawke himself is silent, staring at Fenris in profile, stunned. His fingers are still against the bar. Of anything he could have imagined hearing, that was decidedly not even on the list. Just how many revelations does Fenris have in him? And how many can Hawke handle?

At this point, Hawke figures it’s still clean break territory. Not entirely clean, sure: Fenris has met his friends and gets along well with them, and Hawke is certain that Isabela, and probably Zevran, would be particularly incensed if their new favorite patron were no longer coming around. There are things Fenris has told Hawke that indicate that Fenris trusts Hawke with a lot. And Hawke has shared memories he doesn’t generally hand out to other people, too. Not that his in any way stack up to Fenris’s, if they’re keeping score. But he supposes it means both of them would have a vested interest in keeping the other’s secrets.

The trust though...that’s what would make a split hard. It’s been a while since Hawke found anyone he felt comfortable enough with, and he imagines it’s the same for Fenris, considering the magnitude of what has passed between them over the past months. 

Fenris’s face, the half he can see, betrays no emotion, looks for all the world like he may have taken a nap seated where he is. Yet occasionally, studying him as he is, Hawke can see the twitch of a cheek or eye or lip, and he knows the calm is a battle Fenris is waging. He worries his lower lip and takes a sip of his drink, the ice cubes clanking loudly in the silence between them. It doesn’t even add to the din in the bar, but Hawke’s world has shrunk to the six square feet around their two barstools. 

Isabela walks down the bar, her keen eyes moving from Fenris to Hawke, and flicks her towel at Hawke again, snapping him from his daze. She points to a table in the corner where some college-aged kids are attempting to show each other how well they can balance their chairs on two legs while standing on them. One of them is about to tip into a neighboring table with some rather _capable_ looking men and women. 

He grumbles his assent to Isabela and gets off his stool. When he gets back from threatening the children with eviction and placating the adults, Fenris is gone.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Hawke walks home after work, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets, hood drawn up over his head. He hadn’t wanted to leave Fenris alone after that rather one-sided turn the conversation had taken, but he had at least thought that perhaps Fenris would stay so that Hawke could say… _something._ Not that he knows even know what he would say to Fenris. 

Cheerio, his greeting wild and enthusiastic as usual, settles down quickly as he senses Hawke’s mood as the man bumps around the kitchen. It doesn’t stop him from immediately attacking the bowl of food Hawke sets on the low dog table, though.

Hawke leans a hip against the kitchen counter as he watches his dog and covers a yawn with his hand. By rights he should be heading to bed, and yet… Yet he can’t get the thought of Fenris out of his head, and he knows that if he heads upstairs, all he’ll do is lie there, staring at the ceiling. 

“Fuck.” He grabs his hoodie from the pile he left it in beside the back door when he came in and zips it back on.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  
_  
**I’m outside if you’re awake or even want to talk to me.**  
_  


Hawke sends the text and slips the phone back in his pocket, easing himself down to sit on the small front porch to Fenris’s house. For such a large damn house, it sure has a small front entrance. All the Hightown mansions are like that though, leading out to a common area of trees, shrubbery, and tasteful brick pathways. Perhaps the back yards are larger. Or maybe rich people don’t need lawns. Hawke snorts. He won’t ever find out, himself.

He settles down on the concrete slab, stretching one leg out in front of him. His hands get stuffed back in his hoodie pockets to stay warm, one of them wrapping around his phone set to vibrate so he knows when, or if, Fenris texts back. The man is, hopefully, asleep, and Hawke closes his own eyes, resigned to a cold morning outside.

He’s jerked out of a light slumber an hour later when Fenris opens the front door and light pours out around him. Hawke blinks up at Fenris’s shadowy figure and pulls his phone out of his pocket to check it. No return message. 

Fenris sighs. “You are an idiot, Garrett Hawke.”

Hawke nods and squints up. “One of the few things I know for certain.”

“Come in,” Fenris says, and steps back out of the doorway. “Before you die on my stoop and I must explain a body to the authorities.”

“Aveline would let you off.” Hawke groans as he pushes himself up off the porch. Thirty-something-year-old bodies were not meant to sit in cold areas without moving, and he shuffles into the foyer, grateful for the warmth of a house. Fenris lets out a breathy “hah” and closes the door behind them.

Now that he’s here, actually inside Fenris’s house, facing him, Hawke isn’t as sure of his plan. Especially since his plan seemed to consist of “go to Fenris’s and wait until morning to see him.” It hadn’t actually gone farther than that. 

Fenris pauses halfway through the doorway leading toward the bedrooms and looks back. Hawke is stuck three steps inside the manor, his bearing evoking something of a lost puppy, and the corner of Fenris’s mouth twitches.

“Hawke?” Brown eyes snap up to Fenris. “Did you want to talk here?”

Hawke nods and backs up until he drops down onto one of the benches flanking the front door. He leans his arms on his thighs and looks toward Fenris’s bare feet. “I need to apologize, Fenris,” he says, holding up a hand to forestall comments from Fenris. “I should have said something, anything, but I sat there like an idiot and only thought about myself. I’m sorry.”

A few seconds, then, “Accepted.” Hawke lets out a breath and smiles humorlessly.

“I’m not done.” He looks up to a quizzical expression on Fenris’s face and drops his gaze back to his feet. “I’m sorry for pushing you on it, I—”

“You don’t have to apologize for that, Hawke.”

“Yes, I do!” Hawke straightens and meets Fenris’s eyes, surprising them both with his vehemence. “Fine, I don’t have to. I want to.” 

“This seems…”

“Unprecedented?” Hawke supplies for him. Fenris snorts a soft laugh. “Just about. There isn’t much in this world I believe deserves an apology, but… doing anything that may have hurt you is on that list.” Hawke swallows, drops his eyes again. “So I’m sorry for that. And I’m sorry that son of a bitch did that to you. You deserve so much better.”

Silence in the foyer. Eventually Hawke looks up to find Fenris regarding him with an expression of mixed puzzlement and amusement, head tilted slightly. He spreads his arms, as if to say he has nothing further, and offers a small, tentative smile. Fenris doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches Hawke with that expression on his face, and Hawke’s smile slowly fades as his eyebrows draw together in concern. He draws a breath to speak, but Fenris beats him to it.

“I think that’s the first time you’ve spoken about Dan that you haven’t threatened to punch him.”

Hawke barks out a startled laugh, then erupts into full-throated laughter. Fenris smiles, his posture straightening, and he comes to sit next to Hawke on the bench, their sides touching from shoulder to ankle. He shoves lightly at Hawke, who returns the gesture.

“I could still,” Hawke offers, and Fenris chuckles.

“It may diminish the threat if you keep repeating it.”

“Never.”

Fenris arches an eyebrow at Hawke’s emphatic tone and shrugs. “Are you through apologizing?”

“I—yes.”

“Good. There are still a few hours left in the night, perhaps we can sleep the rest of them?”

Hawke takes Fenris’s offered hand and they move together through the door and up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for your comments and kudos! You're the best :)


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke investigates and Varric plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter a little bit early for you guys! (since you're the best and I have to work all day tomorrow and don't want to accidentally not post)

Sunday, Hawke joins everyone for Wicked Grace again, and though they try to be sneaky about it, he can see the hopeful smiles Isabela and Merrill give everyone when they think he’s not looking. Varric just grins like he always does and shuffles the cards, and that makes Hawke feel more at home than anything. He hadn’t realized how much he actually had missed these nights and these people.

One call to Meeran and he’s off Sundays for good. He doesn’t bother telling anyone: Meeran will contact Varric who will let it slip to Isabela who will cheerfully pass it on to everyone else. It’s actually more effective than Hawke himself trying to get in touch with each of them. And that way it feels like a delightful surprise. Isabela can put a better spin on things like that than he can, embellish the truth a little so it shines better. He does tell Fenris himself, though, who smiles and tips his white-haired head in an acknowledging nod as they sit at the bar one night. 

On Wednesday, during his short time home between the farmers market and The Hanged Man, his doorbell rings. Hawke ignores it. It rings again then again in quick succession, and Hawke rushes to answer, remembering just who it is who rings like that. He opens the door to a small, wiry fellow, dressed in greens and reds with a white scarf about his neck. The little man looks up at Hawke and tips an imaginary hat.

“Sketch,” Hawke greets, leaning against the door jamb. Cheerio peeks his head around Hawke’s legs and growls. Sketch tips his non-existent hat to the dog, who growls lower. “Do you have it?”

Sketch’s other hand raises from behind his back to show a manila envelope. “Of course. What do you take me for?”

“A thief.”

“True enough.”

Hawke scans the visible areas of the street lazily before exchanging Sketch’s envelope for a smaller one of his own. Opening the large envelope, he pulls the pages out a few inches, confirming they are what he expected. The eyes from the police sketch of one of Bethany’s muggers stares back at him. His mouth thins and Sketch coughs nervously.

“Right then. Shall I?” He motions off the porch. Hawke slides the papers back into the envelope and nods. Cheerio stops growling once Sketch makes it to the sidewalk.

“Good boy.” Hawke pats the great dog’s head as he closes the door and spreads the sketches out on his kitchen table. “Now let’s get these assholes.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

As far as work goes, Mondays are still fair game, though as the weeks roll on, Hawke begins to request day assignments from Meeran or Anso so that he can spend those evenings with Fenris. Increasingly colder evenings, as September winds down and October begins in earnest. At least there have been no more porch nights. October in the Marches isn’t like October in Ferelden, where the frosts begin and farmers have to hustle in their crops before they’re killed, but it still gets cold, and Hawke has grown used to the slightly warmer clime, loathe as he is to admit it. He still wears just his red hoodie, though, and suffers through the cold in silent denial until Fenris, one Sunday afternoon before they depart for Varric’s, drapes a red-checkered scarf around his neck.

“What’s this?” he asks, picking at it with a thumb and forefinger.

“What does it look like?”

Hawke frowns at Fenris. “I know what it looks like, I’m not blind. What is it for?”

“Fashion,” Fenris replies, waving a hand airily. “Since if I told you it was to keep warm you probably wouldn’t wear it.”

Hawke’s grumbling reply is lost in muffles as Fenris wraps the scarf “accidentally” over Hawke’s mouth before settling it around his neck again, a triangle of material pointed down his chest. Hawke looks down at it, back up to Fenris, and asks, “Fashion?”

“Fashion.” At Hawke’s shrug of acceptance, Fenris smiles and kisses him.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Hawke spends several early mornings each week after work at The Hanged Man canvassing Darktown. He figures that of the areas of Kirkwall, Darktown is the most likely to harbor the men who accosted his sister. Hightown only houses the high-brow criminals, and as long as their political games don’t extend to him or his, he couldn’t care less what they do. Lowtown might have its fair share of crooks, but mostly it’s full of tired people just trying to make a living. Darktown is where the riffraff hang out, where, every few years when the wigs in Hightown get anxious, the viscount promises to send more police patrols to curb the gang violence. He never does, and, even if he did, it wouldn’t work. Rather, it would get a lot of good police killed, and Hawke knows that Aveline is hugely relieved every time the viscount’s words go unsupported by her forces.

He walks the streets in his most beat up clothes, ripped and torn, dirtied and bloody from his early work after moving to Kirkwall. If Bethany knew he still had these, she would have thrown them out years ago when she helped him renovate his wardrobe. Helped is a charitable term, though. It was more like walking Hawke to the mall at gunpoint and forcing him to pick new clothes on pain of death. He doesn’t deny that some of the clothes look quite good, and he’s been glad to have them so he didn’t look like a complete hack when he first met Fenris, but he could have done without the violent sisterly intervention.

Anders nearly has a heart attack when Hawke walks into his clinic one morning. The secretary who had been there on his first visit is nowhere to be seen, probably sleeping at home like most people, so Hawke simply walks down the hall to where he knows Anders’s office to be and opens the door, letting it swing open and bang against the wall. The gangly doctor, startled from his desk nap, jerks to his feet, his eyes widening in alarm as he takes in Hawke’s clothes and the tired look in his eyes. His hands rise, as if to begin checking Hawke out for injuries, but the stare Hawke levels at him pulls him up short.

“I’m not injured,” he snaps.

“Well, thank the Maker for that,” Anders retorts, arms crossing across his chest. “In that case, kindly leave my clinic by the way you so rudely came in.”

“No.”

Anders raises an eyebrow and draws himself up to his full height. “What?”

“I said no. I need to know if you’ve seen—”

“Oh no, nope, not doing this again.” Anders backs up a single step and holds his hands out in front of him. “I helped you once and you threatened to kill my boyfriend. What could possibly make me want to help you again?”

“Because I’m asking nicely,” Hawke snarls, stepping forward. “Which I’m more than happy to not do.”

“One more step and I call the Coterie,” Anders warns, one arm flying down and to the side. Hawke can just make out a small panic button on the underside of Anders’s desk. The doctor is within a couple steps of it, though Hawke wagers he can take him out before he reaches it anyway. He settles his arms across his chest and shifts his weight from foot to foot. “They’re more than happy to take out the trash when necessary.”

“Trash. That’s cute. Listen, asshole.” And then Hawke is in motion, sweeping one leg forward to catch around Anders’s. He surges forward, catching the doctor’s outstretched arm in one hand and twisting it behind his back. The fingers of his other hand dig into the straggly blonde hair on Anders’s head and force his head down onto his office chair as he collapses. In the space of a few seconds, Anders is on his knees in his office, and not in the good way. Hawke crouches above him, his grip on head and arm a steel vise. 

“There are three men, unaffiliated with the major players as far as I can tell. You’ll tell me if you’ve seen them, and then I’ll leave you alone.”

“You still haven’t given me a good reason to help you,” Anders grinds out from where his face is pressed against the fabric of his chair. 

Hawke laughs, though he doesn’t ease the pressure. “I like you sometimes, Anders. So I’ll tell you: these bastards attacked my sister.” He shoves Anders’s head down into the seat then releases him and steps back. “Call your Coterie if you want. I haven’t had a good fight in a while.”

Anders sinks down to sit on the floor and turns to face Hawke, rubbing at his head with the hand that hadn’t been wrenched behind his back. “Has anyone ever told you you’re certifiable?”

“Not in so many words.”

“No, I suppose not. Considering your...volatile reactions.” Anders shakes his head as Hawke simply shrugs. They sit in silence for a while. Hawke recrosses his arms, and Anders takes stock of his new bruises. Then, finally:

“Your sister?”

Hawke doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move a muscle to nod. He just stares at Anders, still on the floor, daring him to disbelieve. Anders heaves a deep sigh and drops his arm to his side.

“I suppose you have physical descriptions, at least? If I’m to tell you if I’ve seen them.”

Hawke’s grin is quick and feral and reminds Anders uncomfortably of a very large predator. The sketches are spread across Anders’s desk for his examination in short order, and Anders bends to the task, scrutinizing each one. After a few minutes he looks up at Hawke with narrowed eyes.

“Where did you get these?”

“Does it matter?” 

“Yes! These look like official police sketches, Hawke. _You_ are not official police, or, if you are, you aren’t here officially. I’m not up to date on my felonies, but stealing from the cops does strike me as one.”

Hawke rolls his eyes, dismissing Anders’s consternation. “Let’s just say they came from a friend and leave it at that.”

“Leave it at—are you—” Anders begins pacing, one hand dashing through his hair and undoing the half ponytail he’d had. He doesn’t seem to notice as he reaches one wall of the office and doubles back. “You’re mental!”

“It’s been said,” Hawke allows, looking entirely too comfortable with the whole thing for Anders’s taste. The big man just stands there in Anders’s office, arms crossed, weight settled on one foot, his face impassive. “They're not the originals,” he finally says.

“Because that makes it all better, does it?” Anders asks, throwing his arms into the air.

“Sure,” Hawke replies. “They won't be missed. No one will know. So stop your whinging and get to.”

“How did you… Never mind, I don’t want to know, and you wouldn’t tell me anyway.”

Hawke tilts his head sideways in assent then looks pointedly at the sketches. Anders huffs and turns to them again, pushing them this way and that as he considers. Finally he gathers them in a stack and hands it back to Hawke.

“That top one looks familiar but I can’t place him. I don’t go many places outside of Darktown, so it was likely around here. He hasn’t been a patient, or I’d remember him.” Anders shrugs at the scowl Hawke gives him and sits back down at his desk, waving dismissively. “That’s as good as I can do. Now get the fuck out of my clinic.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“We’re going to have a Halloween party,” Varric announces that next Sunday, as everyone is squeezed onto his couches and chairs to eat dinner. He passes a takeout box to Hawke next to him so he can clap his hands and rub them together. Isabela bounces excitedly on her couch and alternates poking Merrill and Zevran, who smile placatingly and rub their arms.

“I have faith that you will all find exceptional costumes in the next few weeks.”

Hawke groans, passes the takeout box, and pillows his head in his hands. Fenris, bemused and holding the takeout box like he doesn’t know what to do with it, looks at Varric over Hawke’s bowed head. Varric chuckles and grins.

“Hawke baby, tell Fenris how much you love Halloween.”

“I hate you, Varric.”

Varric grins wider and winks at Fenris. “Hawkey here had one bad Halloween a few years ago—”

“You invited an actual _priest_ , Varric. Who dressed up _as a priest_.”

“Not sure if that actually qualifies for dressing up,” Isabela interrupts, looking thoughtful. Hawke glares at her through his fingers.

“A _priest_ ,” he repeats, hiding his face again. “Who I spent the night actively trying to seduce.”

“It almost worked, sweetheart,” Isabela reassures him. He doesn’t bother to look up.

“ _A priest_ , who at the end of the night told me he was married to the church but that he hoped the Maker would send me someone soon.”

“Oh yeah,” Varric says. “I forgot about that.”

“How nice for you,” Hawke gripes.

Fenris, a bite of food in his mouth, snorts a laugh and ends up choking on his noodles. Hawke jerks out of his self-pitying daze and spends a few panicked minutes banging Fenris on the back until he breathes a normal breath again and sips some water. As soon as everything has settled down, one look at Hawke and Fenris erupts into gales of laughter, loud and clear. Isabela and Zevran exchange a delighted look, not having heard such a sound from Fenris before. Aveline rescues the takeout box from where Fenris nearly drops it on the floor and spears herself a forkful of noodles.

“Don’t make me sorry I just saved your life,” Hawke grumps as Fenris’s laughter subsides, which only causes him to start up again. Varric pats Hawke on the back.

“I promise I won’t invite the priest,” he says, and Hawke sighs.

“Not that it matters this year,” he replies, after a frustrated but fond look at the highly amused Fenris.

“That’s the spirit. So I _can_ invite the priest?”

“No.”


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke and the gang have a Halloween party

Halloween is on a Monday this year, but since Varric has insisted that the bar needs to have all its regular employees for that evening, they’ll party on Sunday. Halloween is a very big day at The Hanged Man. Varric dresses it up spectacularly, plastic skeletons sharing booths with flesh and blood patrons who _love it_. LED pumpkin lights are strung up all around, fake cobwebs hang in all the corners, and witchy decorations litter the room. Hawke himself has never exactly seen the appeal of Halloween, but since Varric and Isabela enjoy it and he decided to keep them as friends, he gets the dubious pleasure of being roped into celebrations, especially the setting up thereof since he’s tall enough to reach the high places.

Not that he’s been a part of these celebrations for the last year. It’s been a while since he hung out with the gang, the last few weeks notwithstanding, and at least one set of holidays has passed without him going to Varric’s for a wild night of drinking and hitting on priests. Ugh. Damn Varric for reminding him of that and telling Fenris, of all people, about it. It’s what he gets, he supposes, for introducing everyone, albeit unintentionally. 

For the next few weeks, Isabela badgers him near daily about what he and Fenris will wear. “Are you doing a couple’s costume?” she asks one Thursday, early in the evening. Hawke raises one eyebrow. “You know, wearing matching costumes. I think it’d be so cute.”

“That’s an excellent reason not to do it. Thanks, Iz.”

Isabela pouts at him. “You’re no fun.”

“Ask Fenris when he comes in, then.” 

She brightens and cleans a glass with quick, delighted movements. “Oh yes, I think I will.”

“I’m already sorry I mentioned it.” Isabela beams at him and hops up onto the bar top to lean over and kiss Hawke’s cheek.

“You’re the best.”

He rolls his eyes and turns his attention elsewhere, leaving Isabela to the devious plotting he’s sure is going on in her head now. He should probably warn Fenris when he comes in before Isabela has a chance to sink her claws into him. But as he’s sliding his phone from his pocket, something breaks and he has to go get a broom to sweep it up and then lecture the offending patron. After that it’s a group of Thirsty Thursday sophomores who started their drinking way too early, in Hawke’s opinion, and he doesn’t remember to text Fenris until nearly 11:00 when he usually shows up.

 ** _Isabela wants couple’s costumes. Just say no_** he texts, but as he slips his phone back in his pocket, he sees the door open and Fenris walk in. Isabela, walking back to the bar from delivering a drink someone had ordered, grabs Fenris by the arm before he can make his way over to the bar. He startles and whirls to face her but settles down when he realizes it’s just Isabela. He offers her a small smile and bends his head toward her to hear what she’s saying. It’s a polite gesture, as the bar isn’t very crowded at all right now. It’s why Isabela was delivering a drink instead of keeping it at the bar. Hawke can only hope that Fenris doesn’t also think couple’s costumes are a great idea after she lays it out for him.

Fenris walks Isabela to the bar, where she slips behind the counter to grab the special bottle of wine that Varric’s taken to ordering for Fenris. According to Varric, it’s much better than the other stuff they stock, and since Fenris both comes in every day Hawke is there and is dating Hawke, Varric figured that he should have something better than the norm. Neither he nor Isabela nor Zevran mentioned that they’d switched out Fenris’s wine to him, and Hawke hadn’t realized they’d done it until Isabela asked him one night before Fenris came in if he’d noticed and said anything. A confused Hawke queried Fenris who laughed and said that of course he’d noticed. He could tell every time they opened a new vintage. He made sure to ask Isabela to pass his thanks on to Varric that night, once he learned that the wine was specially for him.

Later, as they lay in bed when Hawke came over after work, Fenris confessed that he wasn’t sure he had handled the situation properly, no one having done anything like that for him before. Hawke reassured him that he had, stroking Fenris’s face and side and promising more situations like that in the future. He could tell it unnerved Fenris a little, the idea of people doing things just for him with no expectations of him or strings attached. So he kissed him and promised nothing else would happen in the immediate future so Fenris could get used to the thought.

Now, Fenris smiles shyly at Isabela as she pours from his bottle, still working on coming to terms with it. He salutes her with his glass as he has for the last couple weeks and takes an appreciative sip. Hawke reaches over to drag a thumb down Fenris’s forearm, where he has his sleeves rolled up after removing his jacket. They exchange smiles and Fenris places a hand on Hawke’s where it has come to rest on his wrist. Isabela makes gagging noises.

“Please tell me you said no,” Hawke says once she’s gone back to the other end of the bar to tend the few people who are there. Fenris’s eyebrows draw together in confusion and hurt.

“Why wouldn’t you want me to come?” he asks, his arm stiffening under Hawke’s hand as he moves his other hand to rest near his wine glass.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“What are _you_ talking about?”

“Costumes,” Hawke says slowly.

“Ah.”

“What were you talking about?”

Fenris casts his eyes down, embarrassed. “She was asking to be sure I was attending Varric’s party.”

Hawke half stands from his stool and casts a murderous look down the bar. “Isabela!” She looks back with an altogether innocent look that wipes from her face when she sees how angry Hawke looks. She mouths “sorry,” looking from Hawke to Fenris who doesn’t look up to see.

“Fenris, I—I’m sorry. Isabela had been threatening to talk to you about doing a couple’s costume and I…” He waves a hand and doesn’t finish his sentence. He sighs and sits back down, rubbing his thumb back and forth across Fenris’s wrist cuff.

Fenris nods and they sit together like that for a while. The Thirsty Thursday students have left for another bar by this point and the floor is blessedly quiet. 

“I did have an idea, if you’re interested.” Fenris breaks the silence quietly, looking up at Hawke’s face but not quite meeting his eyes.

“It it...cute?” Hawke asks warily. Fenris snorts.

“I don’t believe it could be considered such, no.”

“Good.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“Well, shit,” Varric says when he opens the door. Hawke shifts uncomfortably in his armor. Fenris’s idea had been characters from a movie he’d seen years ago, about an intrepid group of adventurers who traveled around righting wrongs and slaying dragons. Or, rather, a single dragon, but still. He convinced Hawke to be the main character, a broadsword-wielding behemoth of a man, while he dressed as a supporting character from the group, a stoic elf. As they had worked on these costumes, watching the movie at Fenris’s insistence that it would help Hawke, Hawke began complaining bitterly that it wasn’t fair that Fenris’s character had far fewer layers of armor. Fenris just smiled and reminded Hawke that due to their size difference it wouldn’t make sense to switch. He did point out that at least Hawke wasn’t wearing feathers, at which Hawke had to concede the matter.

The costumes aren’t necessarily well built, considering time constraints. Much of it is store bought and repurposed, Fenris proving a dab hand at these sorts of things. Hawke assumes, like much of Fenris’s odd skill set, that it evolved out of his relationship with Dan and something the other man had needed. It didn’t put him in the best of moods as they worked on the costumes, but they do look good and he focuses on that as Varic ushers them farther into the apartment so he can show them off to everyone else, as if he’d helped.

Fenris walks slightly behind Hawke, fairly comfortable in his brown leggings, chestplate, and gauntlets. A large foam sword is strapped to his back. The chestplate and gauntlets took the most time and effort, ridged and decorated as they are. Hawke thinks Fenris looks dangerous like that, as if he had walked out of the movie, ready to scrap.

Hawke himself is dressed chest to toe in fake plate armor. It covers his shoes and legs in great triangles, his gauntlets are somewhat smaller but still made of the same sort of spikes, and his chestplate has spiked shoulders and a great, square, bowl-like protrusion under his chin. He’d looked at that in puzzlement when Fenris showed him pictures and asked what the hell it was even for. Fenris had launched into some explanation about what would happen in a swordfight, but Hawke tuned out in favor of shaking his head at what he considered a stupid design, no matter how practical Fenris assured him it was in actuality. He also has a foam sword on his back and, as a finishing touch, Fenris had wrapped the red-checkered scarf around his chestplate. Hawke had protested, saying that it wasn’t the correct color, that the Champion’s accessory had been a plain red, but Fenris had shrugged, saying that no one was likely to recognize the characters anyway as the movie was kind of an esoteric one.

“Oooh, sweet thing,” Isabela coos, sauntering over. She’s dressed as a pirate, Hawke thinks, though she seems to have decidedly fewer garments on than most pirates he’s seen. “You look incredible, both of you.” Fenris ducks his head, a small, pleased smile behind his blush.

Zevran looks like a ninja, dressed in black with fake daggers, though he insists he’s an assassin. Merrill is the most adorable wizard Hawke has ever seen, and Aveline has dressed as a knight. Varric looks not that different from normal, with a plunging v-neck shirt, though he’s added a few layers of jewelry to the ensemble.

“I’m a merchant prince!” he tells Hawke when he asks.

“I have no idea what that means.”

“That I’m more important than you and have more money.”

“Good thing you’re buying the booze, then.”

Varric laughs and once everyone has a drink in their hand, they settle down to play a few rounds of Wicked Grace. Because what’s a Sunday without cards? It being a holiday, or as close to it as they can get, they play for shots instead of money. Isabela decrees that the winner of each round will take a shot, the type to be determined by the person who has the worse hand. The better to even the playing field, she claims.

Merrill folds at the first round of betting, turning her two and three of cups over on the table as proof as she leaves for the kitchen to craft her shot. Isabela winces and shoots her an apologetic glance and an air kiss. At the end it comes down to Fenris and Hawke, though Fenris edges Hawke out with the last card. He smiles triumphantly at Hawke, who scowls and crosses his arms.

“Who won?” Merrill asks, coming out of the kitchen. “Did Fenris win? Of course he did. Here you go, Fenris! It’s my favorite shot in the world.”

Fenris smiles up at Merrill but it fades from his face as he sees the shot she’s carrying. “Is that...?”

“It’s a blood mage!” she chirps, presenting it with a flourish. “I think they’re really great.”

Fenris swallows and reaches for the shot glass. “I, ah, I’ve never liked blood mages,” he admits, taking a deep breath in. Then, before Merrill can sweep it away and make him something new, before Hawke can place a hand on his arm and tell him he doesn’t need to drink it, he upends the glass into his mouth, downing it in one gulp. He coughs a little as he finishes and reaches for his drink to wash it down.

“That’s it, kitten,” Isabela purrs. “Chase the booze with more booze. Now we’ve got a party!” Fenris laughs, and Merrill looks relieved as she takes the glass back to the kitchen. Hawke smiles but he watches Fenris from the side as the next hand is dealt.

“What is it, Hawke?” Fenris asks, turning slightly. 

Hawke offers him a lopsided smile and says, “I don’t like blood mages either.” 

The next person to drink is Isabela, and she’s entirely too pleased about that fact. Aveline pours her a straight shot of the cheapest vodka Varric has on hand and they glare at each other as Isabela takes the shot. After Fenris wins again, Isabela bans him from playing for a few hands to give everyone else a better shot at shots. He sits next to Hawke, smiling slightly and glancing at Hawke’s cards occasionally though he never offers any advice.

Eventually everyone has had at least one shot, even Merrill, though that was a community effort. Hawke is pretty sure he saw Varric palm a few cards as he dealt, to make sure that Merrill would end up with something decent. She was so excited to win it was worth making her a shot. Fenris is sitting at three shots, having won the round immediately after Isabela un-banned him. She immediately re-banned him, though she’s at two shots herself. Varric got two, and the rest of them are at one, though with the steady drinking they’re all doing, no one’s complaining about missing out.

They retire to the sofas and chair while Varric calls in their delivery order in a slight accent, one that only comes out when he’s been doing shots. Hawke laughs from where he sits on the couch, Fenris draped over his lap, somewhat more physical after his drinks than usual. He doesn’t seem to much notice the other people in the room, trailing his tattooed hands around Hawke’s neck and chest and arms. Hawke can’t say he minds, though if this keeps up, he’ll wish they were alone. Fenris meets his eyes and arches one eyebrow, curling his lips up, and Hawke growls out a low curse.

Isabela disappears to the kitchen and comes back with Varric and a tray of shots. She pesters everyone into taking one and holding them out to the center of their circle.

“To Hawke, for coming back!” she says, “and to us for being the best damn gang in Kirkwall!”

“Here, here!” Varric calls, and they all drink.

After that, the evening unfolds like a normal Sunday again, though with everyone much more inebriated. The benefits of working in the evening, for Hawke, Isabela, Varric, and Zevran, at least. The rest of them are going to be in for a rude morning, but they all seem to feel that it’s been too long since they were all together like this that they keep drinking past regular limits.

“Hey Hawke, Hawke,” Varric stage whispers, half draped off the couch as they finish the food.

“Varric, Varric,” Hawke whispers back, leaning over Fenris toward Varric.

“What would you have done if I’d invited the priest?”

Isabela dissolves into giggles and clutches at Merrill. Fenris shakes underneath Hawke, laughter bubbling up, shaken loose by three shots. Hawke revels in Fenris’s laughter for a minute, closing his eyes, before he opens them again and stares at Varric. He doesn’t say anything for a minute then jerks up and looks at Fenris.

“Would you let me flirt with him?” he asks in the serious manner drunks have.

Fenris’s laughter dies and he blinks at Hawke. Even Isabela quiets, her eyes wide. “No,” he finally says, his answer quiet and low, pitched so the others wouldn’t hear though it wouldn’t take a master lip reader to know what he said. The room is silent as Fenris and Hawke watch each other. Eventually Hawke nods.

“OK,” he whispers and curls his head to fit against Fenris’s neck, bringing one hand around to thread through Fenris’s hair.

On the other couch, Isabela starts to loudly talk to Zevran and Merrill, making up for the earlier lack of sound and, sweetly, giving Hawke and Fenris a few minutes to themselves in the middle of the group. 

“I don’t share,” Fenris tells Hawke, his mouth against Hawke’s ear. Hawke just nods again into Fenris’s neck and tightens his hand against Fenris’s head. He’s dated a couple people at once before, though not in a truly polyamorous way, just dates with people who didn’t know about the others. It didn’t work out with any of them, though one of the guys, Alistair, had been excellent in bed, considerate but insatiable. A good combination. Hawke is content with the idea of only Fenris, though, hasn’t even given thought to anyone else since they met. He’s pretty sure he would be content with sharing too, were Fenris to express that particular desire. As it is, and given Fenris’s past, he’s more than willing to stay monogamous for him.

He’d do anything for him.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Varric kicks everyone out at 4:00 am, calling Ubers for Aveline and Isabela and company. Hawke insists that he and Fenris are walking, but Varric only listens when Fenris says they’re walking. Hawke grouses at that, considering Fenris had more to drink than he did, though it looks like Fenris is much better at holding his liquor than Hawke. Varric just grins and pats Hawke on his giant, spiked shoulderplates, shooing the two of them out the door.

“Take care of Hawke, now,” Varric tells Fenris as they head down the steps. “He can be a big baby when he’s been drinking.”

“Fuck you, Varric!” Hawke yells, and Fenris chuckles, slinging an arm around Hawke’s waist where there are fewer spikes as they reach the ground.

“Come on, baby,” he says, and Hawke can hear the amusement in his voice. “Let’s get you home.” Hawke grumbles more, for effect, but he can’t deny a certain thrill of pleasure that runs through him at Fenris’s words. He wraps his arm around Fenris’s shoulders and together they walk through the Lowtown streets, more or less in a straight line. It helps that each of them can correct the other when they start to wobble.

“Fenris,” Hawke half-whispers after Fenris corrects one such wobble. “You’re really strong.”

Fenris laughs. “I am,” he agrees.

“Do you work out? I haven’t ever seen you work out.”

After he steers Hawke around a lamp post they were headed for, Fenris shifts his grasp on Hawke’s waist and grabs the hand Hawke has thrown over his shoulders with his free hand. “You are not often around in the evenings. I work out when I get home from work.”

“Ooooh. I haven’t been working out as much recently, and it’s your fault.”

“Is that so?” Fenris asks, faintly amused.

“Yes,” Hawke grumps. “I’m always at your house in the mornings now. There’s no more time.” He stops suddenly, pulling Fenris to a halt with him, and looks down into wide green eyes. “But I want to be there,” he says, sounding almost sober. Reaching up with the hand not around Fenris, he hesitates, then runs his finger gently down Fenris’s nose.

Fenris raises his eyebrows slightly but smiles up at Hawke. He opens his mouth to respond but a noise farther down the sidewalk startles them both. They turn as one, sharply facing the direction the noise came from. Hawke squints, imagining he can make out the figure of a man out of the light of the street lamps.

“Fenris,” he murmurs. “Do you—”

“I see him.”

They let go of each other, and out of the corner of his eye, Hawke can see Fenris settle into the fighting stance he’d displayed at Karl’s apartment. With his armor on, he truly looks like a warrior out of time and Hawke wishes he could take a moment to simply look at him and admire.

“Morning!” Hawke calls, false cheer in his voice. “Happy Halloween!”

When they receive no response from the shadowed figure, Hawke glances at Fenris, who shrugs, and they slowly start walking again, closing with whoever it is. The figure doesn’t move as they approach, except to back further into the shadows. As they move to pass him, he speaks.

“You are the Hawke?”

Hawke tenses and turns slowly to face the man. “Excuse you?” Beside him, Fenris shifts his weight, settling in his stance at Hawke’s right side.

“The son of the Hawke with whom the deal was struck.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“It was not finished.”

Hawks scoffs and turns again to continue on as they had been going. “Right. Have a good one, ya loony.” Fenris hesitates another beat then follows Hawke. They make it a few paces down the sidewalk before the voice rings out again, stopping Hawke cold.

“I know what happened to Malcolm.”

Spinning sharply on his heel, Hawke stalks back to the man and reaches out to grab a fistful of his shirt, hauling him out of the shadows. The man cringes a little as he’s exposed to the soft light from the street lamp. He’s hunched and thin, unhealthily so, with a patchy beard and dark hair. No one you’d think twice about if you passed them on the street, who would blend in quite easily as just another vagabond on the corners.

Hawke turns and slams the man’s back into the lamp post. “Who are you?” he growls, eyes narrowed. Beside him, Fenris looks calmly between Hawke and his hapless victim. The man squirms a little, and Hawke’s hands tighten in his shirt. He stills.

“I'm nobody,” he says, and Hawke hauls him forward to slam him against the pole again.

“Bullshit. Who _are_ you?”

“Nobody, nobody,” the man repeats, shaking his head. “He doesn’t even know I’m here yet.”

“Start speaking sense!” Hawke yells and jabs a fist into the man’s gut. “I’m getting really tired of your crazy talk. Tell me what I want to know!” He lets go of his hold on the man’s shirt, and the man collapses to his knees on the sidewalk, wheezing.

“Your name,” Fenris says, low and even. The menace practically oozes off him.

“L—Larius.”

“Good. Who doesn’t know you’re here?” Hawke sets to pacing while Fenris keeps up the interrogation, tattooed hands clasped loosely behind his back.

“Cory. Cory P.”

Fenris looks at Hawke, raising one eyebrow in question. Hawke shakes his head. The name means nothing to him. It isn’t any old acquaintance of the family from Lothering or anyone Leandra had ever mentioned. His eyebrows knit together. Either the name does mean nothing or it’s someone Malcolm knew and never told Leandra about. That possibility concerns him: Malcolm and Leandra had always been the pillar of everything good in a relationship, and the idea that he could have hidden something from her is disturbing. Life wasn’t always easy for the Hawkes, living as they did on an art teacher’s salary, but everything had been shared between his parents. Except this. Whatever this is.

“Why are you here?”

“I have information.”

“So you said.” Fenris scoffs, contempt thick in his voice. “You will need to be more specific on what you know about Malcolm.”

Hawke has to give it to him: Fenris is good at this. Intimidating and in control, not even showing a hint of the fact that he doesn’t actually know who Malcolm is. They haven’t talked about family much, just Carver and Bethany a little, and it isn’t like Hawke goes around calling his parents by name anyway. But to hear Fenris, you’d think he knew everything. Not for the last time, Hawke finds himself wondering just why Fenris has this particular skill, what it could have been that Dan needed from him that he would have learned how to forcefully question another person.

“Cory had him killed.”

Hawke isn’t fast enough to prevent the sharp intake of breath that follows that revelation. Fenris’s head snaps to him, concern on his face, and Hawke waves him away, back to his line of questioning. The look Fenris gives him promises that they will talk later.

“Why?”

“He was afraid.” The man glances nervously around him and looks up from where he kneels to Fenris then to the pacing Hawke, reaching out with his hands. “Please, you must protect me. He cannot know that I talked to you. He already has agents in the city tailing the Hawkes—”

“ _What?_ ” Hawke halts and crouches down in front of Larius, getting up close. “What did you say?” He speaks slowly, holding Larius’s gaze by sheer force of will as the man licks his lips.

“He...has agents in the city?”

“ ‘Tailing the Hawkes,’ “ Hawke finishes for him. “Tell me Larius, did they happen to _fucking mug my sister_?”

Larius swallows and his hands twitch. Hawke pushes on his knees with his hands and stands, taking a few steps away.

“That fucking bastard. I’ll fucking kill him.” 

Fenris touches Hawke’s arm gently with one hand, and Hawke wrenches it away, scowling first at Fenris then the kneeling Larius.

“Please,” Larius whines. “You have to protect me. He’ll find me and kill me. You don’t understand.”

“You’d be surprised,” Fenris answers drily, and Hawke stares at him. Fenris shrugs, gestures to his midsection, and gives Hawke the same “we’ll talk later” look. Rolling his eyes, Hawke throws his hands up in the air and paces away. He turns, paces back, and stands in front of Larius.

“What was this Cory person afraid of? You may as well tell me, Larius. I happen to know the captain of the local precinct.” Larius looks up hopefully. “But I won’t introduce you unless you _tell me._ ”

Larius shuffles on his knees, looking around again, as if the assailants he feared were just around the corner, ready to spring out at the least wrong word. He licks his lips. “Cory just said that Malcolm was getting too close, that he needed to be taken care of. He ordered his lieutenant, Janeka, to carry it out.”

“What was he getting too close to?”

“I don’t know.” At Hawke’s growl, Larius ducks his head and raises his hands. “It’s the truth, I swear!”

Hawke sighs heavily. “You’re barely worth it. Follow me.” And he turns, stalking off toward Aveline’s station. It isn’t the closest one to them, but it’s the one with a desk sergeant he knows. Fenris falls in next to Hawke, glancing back occasionally to be sure Larius is still following them. No one speaks until they make it to the station.

Hawke shoves open the glass door, not bothering to hold it open for the man behind him. It nearly catches Larius in the face before he raises his hands to catch it. “Brennan,” Hawke greets, leaning on the front desk. At her confused look, he remembers what he looks like and offers a shrug. “It’s Halloween, Brennan.”

“Right. I tend to forget days when I do overnights.” She rubs a hand across her forehead. “What can I do for you? Captain’s not in right now.”

“I know, I saw her a couple hours ago.” He jerks an armored thumb back at Larius, hunched behind him. “I’ve got a delivery. He wants protection. I figure you can stick him in a cell for the rest of the morning, let Ave deal with him when she gets in.”

Brennan peers over her desk and around Hawke. “I guess so. Not like he’ll take up much room, eh?”

Hawke snorts. “Something like that. I gotta split, though. We good?”

“Sure.” She radios for a junior officer to come up to the desk. “Have a good one. See you next time.”

Hawke salutes her and leaves the station without looking at Larius.

He walks purposefully until they round the corner from the station where he stops and yells his frustration, kicking the building wall and banging his fist on it. “ _Fuck!_ ” He let his head drop until the top of it rests against the brick and stays there, fisted hand loose on the wall next to his ear.

Beside him, Fenris crosses his arms and leans his back against the wall, propping up one foot. He doesn’t say anything, just stands there radiating calm and strength. Eventually Hawke’s hand falls to his side and he twists his head to look over at Fenris who looks back, face peaceful but inscrutable. 

“You first,” Hawke says. Fenris huffs and turns his head to stare out at the buildings across the street from them.

“I...know too much about how Dan practices politics. He may have sent some thugs after me.”

Hawke raises one eyebrow and waits in silence for Fenris to continue.

“Several groups over the years. Anders sees to me when they get lucky.”

“Your ribs.”

Fenris hums. “A concussion once, some bruising and contusions, scrapes and cuts. The usual.” He shrugs. “They do not look as pretty I do.”

Hawke snorts and rotates so he’s facing the same way as Fenris, but he leaves his head back against the wall. Holding it up just does not appeal right now. “Somehow,” he says, “unsurprised you’re a fighter.” Fenris gives him a small smile and shrugs again. 

“Your turn.”

Hawke closes his eyes, heaving a great sigh. He stays silent for a few moments, not collecting his thoughts so much as just taking a bit of space, trying to put some distance between his feelings and the facts Fenris is looking for.

“Malcolm was my father.”

Fenris turns his face toward Hawke and waits for him to continue.

“He died before we moved here. They found him in an alley I used to play in as a kid, not far from our house. The police investigation said it was a mugging that went wrong, but that never sat well with me. Guess I know why, now.” He exhales sharply and drags a hand down his face. “Not that I know much.”

“Perhaps Aveline will learn more,” Fenris suggests.

“Perhaps. Or maybe that man’s just crazy.” But something niggles at the back of his mind, and somehow Hawke doesn’t think that, despite the evidence, Larius is completely nuts. The result of the police investigation hadn’t made sense to him, and maybe this man was just accidentally preying on the part of Hawke that refused to believe his father’s death was a simple mistake. He sighs again.

“I thought I was over it, Fenris,” he whispers. “I thought I’d finally moved on. And then…” He gestures helplessly, opening his eyes to stare up at the lightening sky. Dawn isn’t too far off, and Hawke suddenly feels weary, bone-tired in a way he hasn’t experienced much in the last decade since his father’s death. It was a feeling he was intimately acquainted with in the early days, as he and Leandra attempted to keep their family going after the best of them was no longer with them. “Fuck.”

Fenris pushes off the wall and reaches for Hawke’s hand. “Come,” he says simply. They aren’t too far from Fenris’s mansion, and Fenris leads Hawke there by the hand, pulling him through the front door and up the stairs to bed. Hawke strips his armor mechanically, not caring that he tears some pieces, and falls in without removing his clothes to stare at the wall until the warmth of Fenris behind him and the weight of Fenris’s arm over his waist drags him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday!


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke meets some new friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter up early cuz I work early tomorrow and earlier the next day (ugh).
> 
> Also: Happy Thanksgiving (on Thursday) to the US folks! Enjoy the time with your family or friends, however you do the holiday. And if you're out shopping at any point this week, please make it a point to be kind to the service workers who help you, no matter how long you've been in line or if they're out of stock on something. Extend love and be kind. We'd really appreciate it :)

Hawke wakes later that morning to a text from Aveline. **_Come to the station._** He groans and rolls over, eyes snapping open when he hits empty bed instead of Fenris. He bolts upright, heart hammering, and swings his legs off the side to stand, immediately rethinking that decision as he sways on his feet, his head pounding painfully. “Damn it, Isabela.”

His heart calms, at least, when Fenris enters the room, a mug in his hands. He offers it to Hawke, who gulps down the coffee like it came from heaven. It won’t help his headache much, Hawke knows that from experience, but he doesn’t care. Coffee has never tasted so good.

“I didn’t know how you take it,” Fenris says, sounding amused as he watches Hawke drink.

“Nearly any way,” Hawke replies, pausing mid-sip as his brain catches up to the words he spoke. Fenris chuckles, coughs, and studies the floor intently. 

“Good to know?” he says softly, raising his eyes. The green burns into Hawke, and he nearly chokes on his coffee.

“Maker, Fenris, are you trying to kill me?”

“At 9:00 on a Monday? Never.”

Hawke snorts and holds his coffee cup upside down. “More?”

He follows Fenris downstairs and to the kitchen, where the other man has a half-full coffee pot waiting. Another mug is sitting by the sink. Hawke looks from it to Fenris to the clock on the oven nearby then back to Fenris.

“How much sleep did you get?” 

Fenris shrugs and avoids Hawke’s gaze. “I’ve been up since 7:30.”

“Don’t avoid the question, Fenris. How much sleep did you get?” Hawke grabs the coffee pot and refills his mug, glancing from Fenris to his cup and back. Fenris rubs his neck with one hand.

“I didn’t.”

Hawke narrows his eyes at Fenris and takes a sip from his mug. “How the fuck are you still standing?” he finally asks, when it becomes clear that Fenris won’t be more forthcoming with answers.

Fenris shrugs again. “I have had plenty of practice going without sleep, Hawke. As have you,” he adds, when Hawke opens his mouth. The big man grumbles but stays quiet, leaning against the kitchen counter, drinking his coffee. After a minute, Fenris grabs his cup by the sink and pours himself more coffee, dashing in some creamer from the fridge. Hawke still doesn’t say anything, but he looks happier as Fenris takes a sip. They stand in the kitchen for a while longer, each of them drinking from his own mug and not speaking. 

Once Hawke has polished off his third cup of coffee, he sets the mug down on the counter and crosses his arms. “Aveline wants me in the station.” Fenris raises an eyebrow at that.

“Did she say why?”

“No, but I’m a nug’s uncle if it doesn’t have to do with that nutjob we brought in last night.”

“This morning,” Fenris corrects with a small smile. Hawke grunts. “When are you going in?”

“Soon as I can. Though,” he says with a wry look at his clothes, “I should probably go home and shower first.” He starts to calculate the amount of time it will take him to walk home from Fenris’s then back up to the station, factoring in some time to shower and feed the dog.

“I’ll drive you.” Fenris’s voice cuts into his thoughts, and Hawke looks up curiously.

“Don’t you have to work?”

“I have a note on file from my, uh...my doctor. I am able to skip a few days of work as needed.”

Doctor. But not Anders, of that Hawke is sure. He cocks his head to one side, eyebrows knit together as he looks at Fenris. Fenris folds his arms protectively over his chest but stares back.

“I do not wish to discuss it, Hawke.”

Hawke raises his hands in surrender. “Have a bag I can shove my costume in?” he asks instead.

Fenris drives him home and sits on the floor with the dog as Hawke goes upstairs to shower and change. It’s a sweet scene he comes back to, Fenris cross-legged and leaning against the back of the couch, Cheerio’s massive head in his lap. Both of them look so content that Hawke hates to disturb them, but he pours a bowl of food for the dog anyway, and then he and Fenris are back on the road to the station.

When they walk in the doors, a harried looking Aveline is facing them, speaking to two people whose backs are to the door. She leans over, widens her eyes at Hawke, and motions them forward. Must be someone from a different bureau for her to be this exasperated. Hawke steps up and to her side, Fenris beside him, looking carefully at the two new people. A cursory inspection finds him the crest for their agency on each of their shoulders, a flaming eye with a sword stuck through it. Agents from this organization hardly ever show up and meddle in ordinary affairs; in fact, their entire reputation is that they show up unexpectedly, taking over what end up turning into high-profile investigations. It’s led to the agents being called Inquisitors and the phrase “Nobody expects the Thedosian Inquisition!” bandied about the halls of law enforcement agencies across all of Thedas, not just the Marches. If they’re here, it must mean that Aveline has an important case on her hands. If she’s called Hawke here, it must have to do with that nut, Larius.

The taller of the two, a dark-skinned woman with the sides of her head shaved close, leaving a mass of curly brown hair on the top, nods briskly to Hawke. “Evelyn Trevelyan,” she says, her voice accented, raising a hand to indicate herself.

“Try saying that five times fast,” her partner, a dashing man with a rakish moustache and mischievous glint in his eyes, quips.

“That’s Dorian.” Trevelyan rolls her eyes, but Hawke can see the underlying affection and wonders how long the two of them have been working together and if they’re…

“Pavus. Dorian Pavus. A pleasure,” Dorian purrs, winking in turn at Fenris and Hawke. So it’s like that, then.

“And you’re here because?” Hawke asks, not introducing himself, assuming Aveline has already mentioned him to the Inquisitors, and not bothering to wait for Aveline to explain the situation.

Trevelyan arches an eyebrow at Aveline, who shoots a frustrated and tired look at Hawke, who simply shrugs. “You called me, Aveline. Why?”

“Cory’s our territory,” Trevelyan answers instead. “When we heard the Kirkwall Police had one of his people in the slammer, we had to come check it out. We’ll be taking over from here.”

“Not that there’s much to take over,” Dorian adds, cupping his chin thoughtfully. Aveline looks slightly murderous.

“I told you, this is the first we’ve heard of this person. _That’s_ why there’s not an investigation for you to pick up.”

“Who is Cory?” Hawke asks, nearly interrupting Aveline. Trevelyan and Dorian share a coded look and don’t answer. “Look, I spent a good bit of my morning being raved at by someone who works for him, so I’d really like some sort of answer. I figure it’s the least you can do, and it’s not like it will hinder your investigation.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow at Trevelyan, who shrugs first at him then at Hawke.

“Cory’s a loan shark,” she says. “Best in the business. He was big up in Tevinter years ago, had only started to reach into other markets. Then he goes quiet about two, three decades ago. Suddenly, ten years back, he busts back on the scene, bigger than ever and with his fingers in way more markets.” Trevelyan looks at Dorian.

“We’ve been on this case for years,” he continues. “Ever since we partnered, we’ve been after him, even if it didn’t always seem that way. We took some mighty detours…” He pauses to reminisce for a moment, looking up at the ceiling with a beatific smile. Trevelyan elbows him in the side.

“Right. So we’re very invested in this case is what I mean. I have a personal interest in seeing him go down: he is a disgrace to my homeland.”

“You’re Tevinter?” Fenris snarls, his hands in fists.

Dorian sighs, offers Fenris a put-upon look, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Unclench, Seheron. I don’t care where you’re from.”

“It’s taken him years to get there,” Trevelyan adds. “Honestly, Dor, you were a nightmare when I first met you.”

“But a gorgeous nightmare with excellent teeth,” Dorian grins, recovering quickly.

“Sure. Anyway, all of this to say: we need to ask Hawke a few questions.”

The small lobby of the station erupts into noise. “ _What?_ ” from Aveline. “You never said—” Fenris’s lip curls and he growls, “No.” And from Hawke: “How long will this take?”

Aveline and Fenris doubletake and stare at Hawke, who crosses his arms and leans back against the front desk, the picture of ease. “What?” he asks. “It’s not like refusing will go well for me.” Trevelyan nods.

“Smart man,” Dorian comments. “You Marchers continue to surprise me.” Trevelyan rolls her eyes. 

Hawke snorts. “I’m Ferelden.”

“Doubly surprised, then.” Dorian shrugs at the glare Hawke sends his way. “I’m afraid I was born with quite the superiority complex, being Tevinter.”

“Shouldn’t take more than an hour,” Trevelyan interrupts, looking from Aveline to Hawke. “Then you’ll be free to go on your way.”

Aveline exhales heavily and gestures toward the door that will take them to the back of the station. “Fine. Take interrogation room B, second on the right. Can I get you some coffee, Fenris?”

“Water will be fine, Aveline. Thank you.” Fenris watches Trevelyan lead Hawke through the door, Dorian bringing up the rear. He gives Fenris a sympathetic look before he closes the door after them.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“So?” Fenris asks as he and Hawke leave the police station for the second time in less than twelve hours. It’s two too many times for his taste; he’s wary of authority figures still.

“Hm? Oh.” Hawke’s head snaps up from where he had been studying the sidewalk in front of them, lost in thought. “They thanked me for bringing him in but were pretty disappointed when I didn’t have any new information for them. Seemed to think I should know more, but,” he shrugs. He wishes he knew more too, so their request that he stay away from their investigation is one he is already planning to ignore. Someone dispatched agents to his city to attack his sister. No way in hell is he letting that slide.

“They’re taking crazy Larry and going on their way. Aveline isn’t too pleased, but her boys are overworked as it is, so I don’t think she cares as much as it seems.”

Fenris takes a moment to think as they get into his car. “Will they be back?” he asks, and something in his tone pauses Hawke halfway into the vehicle. He stands, one foot in and one foot out, one hand on the roof of the car, and peers down and over at Fenris.

“Did it really bother you, him being Tevinter?”

Fenris shrugs, but it takes him two tries to get his seatbelt fastened. He sighs and leans his forehead forward to rest on the steering wheel. “Perhaps. It was...surprising. I have not met anyone from Tevinter since I moved to Kirkwall.” After a pause, he adds, “the goons Dan sent do not count,” and huffs a laugh.

“I don’t know if they’re coming back,” Hawke says in answer to Fenris’s question, finally getting in and shutting his door. “I imagine they would if any new information came to light, but who knows if that will happen.”

They’re parked in the spot Fenris has behind his house before either of them speaks again.

“You don’t have to come with me if they want to talk again,” Hawke offers, holding the back door open for Fenris as he enters the house. Fenris scoffs, taking off his shoes before moving further into the house.

“I will do what I wish, Hawke.”

In an instant, he’s frozen in the next doorway, and Hawke nearly runs into him.

“What—”

Fenris raises a hand and Hawke falls silent, moving behind Fenris’s right shoulder and slipping the knife from his pocket. He can hear something in the house, a rattle and thump that he hasn’t heard before from this building. Fenris crouches and moves into the kitchen on soft feet; Hawke wishes he’d been able to remove his boots but does the best he can to follow without a sound. The noises are coming from the main room with all the stairs. He and Fenris duck behind the island in the kitchen, then creep to the cabinets next to the open doorway that will take them out into that room.

Back pressed to the wood of the cabinets, Fenris peers carefully around the edge for a moment. He turns back to Hawke and flashes six fingers, then one, and mimes a gun.

_Show me_ , Hawke mouths and points to one of the kitchen tiles.

Fenris draws an imaginary map on the tile, indicating where each man is in relation to their doorway, the stairs, and the front entrance. The man with the gun is directly across from their door, which will make things trickier, and they don’t know if there are any more in the foyer or up the stairs in the bedroom. Any further reconnaissance could end disastrously, but so could running out into an open area without knowing what they’re getting themselves into.

Hawke closes his eyes and breathes out. When he opens them again, Fenris is staring at him expectantly. Hawke points to himself then indicates the doorway and, with a few taps on the tile map, the men he’ll engage: the gunman and the other two furthest from the door. Fenris frowns but Hawke shakes his head at him and crawls past him to crouch as close to the doorway as he can. Then, after turning his head and pressing a quick kiss against Fenris’s forehead, he barrels out of the kitchen.

He doesn’t yell as he runs across the floor; there’s no need. If you don’t notice a muscular 6’5” man headed straight for you at speed, you’re probably blind. As the gunman raises his weapon, he drops and slides the rest of the way, kicking the man’s legs out from under him as he fires. Hawke has a moment to hope that Fenris wasn’t in the bullet’s path before hopping to his knees to smash an elbow into the gunman’s face as he tries to regain his feet. The man grunts, stills, and Hawke spins on his knees and kicks up with one leg to connect sickly with another thug’s knee as he approaches. The man topples forward, flailing. Hawke gains his feet and smashes his knee into the falling man’s face.

His third chosen opponent circles warily, a healthy dose of caution in him after watching Hawke take down two of his fellows in less than a minute. Behind him, Hawke can hear the sounds of Fenris fighting another of the home invaders, but he doesn’t turn, can’t give the man in front of him any opening. He flips open the blade of the knife he’s held clenched in his hand since Fenris first noticed something wrong and settles down in ready stance, watching and waiting.

Across from him, the man sneers and draws a long hunting knife that had been sheathed behind his back. Hawke curses internally but does his best to keep any trepidation from showing on his face. His knife, though four-and-a-half inches of half-serrated steel, isn’t going to be much of a match against that thing. His best bet will be to keep it out of the fight, disarm the other man as quickly as possible, and that means moving first. 

He feints right and moves left, raising his knife to block the swing he anticipates will come from above. And pays the price for his mistake. The man slashes at face height instead of slicing down, and Hawke barely scrambles back in time to avoid losing an eye. As it is, the knifepoint catches his cheek and nose, drawing a line of blood across his face. He snarls and his opponent grins like he’s already won.

Hawke throws his knife. It surprises the fuck out of the other man, who raises both his arms in an instinctive gesture of protection. Hawke is in motion as soon as the knife leaves his hand, dashing forward to bulldoze into the thug, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist and tackling him to the ground. He rears up and punches viciously, once, twice, three times before the man goes limp. Hawke hits him once more for good measure, then grabs the man’s knife before getting up to retrieve his and pocket it. It’s not a throwing knife and had missed its target entirely though it served its purpose admirably. A look around the room shows him that Fenris has dispatched his foes, they all lie unmoving or groaning in the way that means they aren’t getting up anytime soon, and disappeared. Presumably to check the bedrooms.

Hawke growls and surges up the stairs, nearly colliding with Fenris at the top.

“Clear,” is all Fenris says before Hawke picks him up and kisses him roughly, though he takes care not to stab him.

“Don’t do that to me,” Hawke whispers, his voice low and harsh, when he breaks away. He sets Fenris down at the top of the stairs and moves down one step, so he can rest their foreheads together. “Fuck but you scared me, disappearing like that. I don’t know why that scared me so much.” He closes his eyes and just stands there, breathing, feeling Fenris under his hands.

“Hawke, you’re bleeding on me,” Fenris says and Hawke crashes back into himself, pulling away from Fenris and reaching for his nose.

“Ah shit. You have anything?” 

Fenris chuckles and leads him into the bathroom, and Hawke could swear he hears him mutter under his breath, “do I have anything? Who do you think I am?” as they walk through his bedroom. Hawke sets the knife on the sink and cleans the blood off his face as best he can, swiping at Fenris’s face too. Then he stands there, a clean cloth pressed to his nose, as Fenris retreats back to the main room to loot the bodies, make sure they’re still out of commission, and see if he can figure out who they were and why they were there.

Hawke’s pretty sure he has a good idea though, after the chat he had with the Inquisitors and the raving Larius had done. He’s intensely relieved that Bethany only got mugged, though an attack like this feels like escalation and that doesn’t bode well. He knows he needs to call Aveline, and he will, and she’ll probably call the Inquisitors back, but right now he just needs information, free and unhindered by official processes. He sighs, switches the hand holding the cloth to his nose, and leans against the wall.

“Two Tevinters and a Ferelden. The rest are Marchers,” Fenris reports from the doorway. His eyes take in Hawke propping up the wall and narrow in concern. “Are you alright, Hawke?”

Hawke surprises himself by laughing into the wallpaper. His head spins and he sits abruptly on the toilet, cradling his head in his free hand. Fenris is at his side in an instant, one hand on Hawke’s shoulder, the other hovering anxiously near his face.

“I am...not OK,” Hawke manages, when his head regains its equilibrium. “Anders?”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“Oh, you’re actually injured this time,” Anders comments wryly when Fenris totes Hawke into his office. “Lay him on the table and _get back_. You’re no help to him right now.”

Fenris hovers nearby as Anders conducts his assessment, despite the dirty looks the doctor throws him occasionally for standing too close. Anders asks Hawke a steady stream of questions as his hands adeptly bandage Hawke’s face, lightly prodding along his skull for other injuries. Hawke’s answers come slowly, as if he has to think about every word he speaks.

“When did you last eat?”

“Uh...2:00am?”

“How much water do you drink daily?”

“Does coffee count?”

“No.”

“I...don’t know. A bit?”

“How much sleep do you get a night?”

“Five hours. If I’m lucky.”

“When was the last time you got a full eight?”

“Months ago.”

“Two of a kind, you are,” Anders mutters, shaking his head and looking at Fenris. “Well, never thought I’d say this, but your head’s fine. It’s just the rest of you that needs work.” He offers Hawke a cup of water. “Drink _all_ of it. And damnit, start hydrating better. You wouldn’t have had your little fainting spell if you’d drink more water. And sleep more, but I’ll pick my battles. Now get out.” And with that, he bustles off to another clinic and, presumably, a patient he cares about more than Hawke.

“I hope it scars,” Hawke says as Fenris approaches the table he’s lying on. He sits up a little and drains the cup of water. “Wouldn’t that look awesome?”

Fenris’s expression is difficult to read. Hawke opens his mouth to speak again, but Fenris grasps the back of his neck tightly with both hands and whispers, “Don’t do that to me, Hawke.” He kisses him. “I would be particularly incensed if you were to kill yourself through dehydration.”

Hawke has the good sense to look chagrined and raises his water cup between them. Fenris rolls his eyes but fetches him a refill. They leave the clinic and drive back to Hawke’s to spend the afternoon curled on his couch with the dog at their feet, Fenris refilling water cups for both of them and ordering delivery. Hawke calls Aveline’s attention to the mess in Fenris’s house and she comes by to question them about events and let them know that the men have been arrested for breaking and entering and assault and battery. She gives Hawke’s face a critical look but doesn’t actually say anything. Hawke touches the bandage with gentle fingers, poking at where he knows the wound to be. It doesn’t hurt, Anders must have put something topical on it, but Fenris slaps his hand away from his face and scowls. He keeps his hands folded in his lap after that or resting on the legs Fenris has stretched across his lap as he reads. The stacks of books that he has lying around his house also extend to his car, it seems.

“It was a pleasure often denied me,” is what Fenris tells him about it when he asks.

The afternoon slowly turns into evening and Hawke groans. Halloween means he actually has to work even though he’s usually off on Mondays. He stretches, upsetting Fenris’s sprawl, and the other man looks up from his book, grumpy at being disturbed. “Work,” Hawke apologizes, shrugging. Fenris’s eyebrows draw together, and he looks at his watch.

“Ah. I must be going as well. I have an...appointment soon. I can drop you at the Hanged Man on my way if you wish.”

“Appointment?”

All Fenris does is nod in acknowledgment and Hawke sighs.

“With your ‘doctor’?”

“...Yes.”

Hawke raises his hands and drops the subject, standing up from the couch to go change into his work clothes. If they leave now, he’ll get to The Hanged Man a little early, but he figures Varric would prefer he show up early on a day like today. They’ll do a brisk business, even on a Monday, because of The Hanged Man’s reputation for Halloween. As long as Hawke doesn’t have to help judge the costume contest, he’ll be fine, though the sheer number of people estimated to be present will probably mean he won’t have any time for Fenris. It’s happened before, and he expects it, what with it being _work_ and all, but he’s grown to resent it more and more recently. It kind of snuck up on him, that feeling, just like his anxiety earlier that day at Fenris’s disappearances from bed and then after the fight. He refuses to think about why that is and what it means and thumps back down the stairs.

Fenris pulls over around the corner from The Hanged Man, laying a soft hand on Hawke’s arm. “It’s...it’s therapy,” he says. At Hawke’s confused expression, he sighs and tries again. “My appointment. My doctor.”

“Why didn’t you say so before?”

Fenris’s gaze travels out the windshield and the expression on his face sours. “It is still difficult, even after several years. She is nice and has helped a lot. I would not have met you without her.” He looks back at Hawke, his face mellowing. “For that, at least, I am grateful.”

“I’m proud of you.” Fenris’s eyes narrow and he searches Hawke’s face, looking for the joke. But Hawke is sincere, his face open and honest. “Truly,” he says, when Fenris blinks in confusion. “It is a great strength to accept help.” A strength he himself does not have. He’s seen counselors before, but he had been forced into it by Leandra and had never stayed long. He couldn’t deal with their touchy-feely way of handling him, and they couldn’t handle the brash way he talked about things. So he just avoided the whole thing and stoppered his feelings in a glass jar at the back of his mind.

Fenris huffs. “It was part of my admittance agreement. She was assigned to me to be sure I was truly not a threat to Kirkwall.”

“They’re still evaluating you?”

“Well, no, not really.” Fenris looks a little uncomfortable. “I see her of my own accord now.” Hawke gives him a small smile, and Fenris returns it with one of his own. “She encouraged me to go back to The Hanged Man. I nearly did not after that Saturday when we first spoke. I had convinced myself that it was not worth it, that you likely seemed to care about me only as a patron not as anything more. She told me to give you a chance, reminded me that there exist good people in the world.”

“I count as good?” Hawke raises his eyebrows in surprise. Fenris snorts.

“You are...better than some people.”

Hawke laughs. “You mean, I’m not a toerag like your ex.”

“Mm. Yes.”

“Well, that I’m OK with. I wouldn’t call myself good.” Hawke presses his lips together, and Fenris reaches out to cup his face.

“You are good for me.” He pulls Hawke toward him with his other hand on the back of his head and kisses him. “Now get out of my car or I’ll be late.”


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Hawkes have Thanksgiving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for being so late with this chapter! Last week being Black Weekend and working retail...it just was not conducive to getting anything done. But here is the chapter, a couple days before Monday, because I love you guys and I want you to have good things.

Between work, Fenris, and his continuing, frustratingly unfruitful investigation into Bethany’s muggers, November slips by quickly. Bethany calls the week before Thanksgiving to talk him into coming over to the house to spend the day with her and Leandra.

“OK.”

“What do you mean, OK?” Bethany sounds suspicious. “You usually try to get out of things like this. I had a whole speech prepared about how we’re family and family means you have to deal with mom’s shit occasionally too.”

Hawke laughs. “I’m sure it was a great speech, Bethy. I just… I guess I figured I’ve been away from home too long.”

That and Larius’s insinuation that his father knew something about this Cory P. fellow is something he wants to look into, and the best place to do that would be the house where Leandra has kept nearly all of Malcolm and Carver’s things in storage. It’s a little creepy, actually; Carver’s room hasn’t changed in the years since his death, even though it had to be packed up and moved to the new house. He shivers. He doesn’t enter that area of the house at all, if he can help it. 

“Aww, that’s sweet, but I don’t believe you. Did Fenris put you up to it? _Is he coming?_ ” Bethany sounds a little too excited for his tastes, and he’s glad he hasn’t introduced them yet, though Bethany has coerced a decent amount of information from him in return for caring for Cheerio.

“No, he has plans with his sister, apparently.”

“What about Christmas? Can he come for Christmas?”

“One holiday at time, Bethy, shit.” 

She giggles on the other end, and Hawke finds himself smiling despite himself. She really is the bright sunshine in his life.

“You’re good though? Riding with Ella not so bad as you thought?”

Bethany grumbles good naturedly, but admits that it can be nice to get home in the evenings instead of the early mornings. “I have more time to paint, it’s crazy! But you still owe me brushes, big brother. Lots of them. Nice ones.”

Hawke laughs. “I know, I’m getting there. You’ll have them eventually.” Whenever he can find the time to actually head to a store. He’s fairly sure Fenris wouldn’t mind going with him, but he’s possessive of the time he spends with Fenris and doesn’t want to waste it wandering around a fine art store on an errand from his sister, however much he loves her.

“Yeah, probably for my birthday,” she grouses. She and Carver were born on a bright April day, which suited Bethany much better than it ever did Carver. Hawke remembers playing outside at a neighbor’s house while Malcolm and Leandra were at the hospital. He had known he was getting siblings but hadn’t understood at seven years of age how much his life would change once these two new humans joined their family. It’s still hard to grasp just how much Bethany matters to him; intellectually it isn’t anything that makes much sense. Emotionally he just feels the love for this small spitfire of a woman coursing through him like a river overrunning its banks and pulling him away. 

“Watch it,” Hawke warns with no real heat, “or it’ll be your _next_ birthday.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Hawke arrives at his mother’s house bearing six personal pies from the grocery store. He can’t really cook and making pies is beyond his skills, so his contributions have always been purchased. It fits with the current style of Hawke family Thanksgiving, though. Since Carver died, Leandra hasn’t been up to cooking much and it depresses her to prepare meals for only two or three people. So instead of sitting down at a table to a traditional turkey, they make lunchmeat sandwiches, grab bags of chips, and sit on the couch watching stupid movies. The pies are for dessert. Of the six, he’s hoping that at least two make it through the day so Bethany has leftovers for the weekend. He’ll probably have two, Bethany will eat one, and it’s a toss-up as to whether or not Leandra will be up to eating a pie herself.

A bottle of wine is already sitting open on the kitchen counter when Hawke deposits his bags, and he glares at it disapprovingly. Bethany glides in, a wine glass in one hand, and kisses his cheek before examining the pies closely. 

“That one. Don’t eat it or I’ll tell Fenris you used to hang up your underwear when you were little.” She points to the cherry crumb pie and smiles innocently.

“Are you sure we’re related?” Hawke shakes his head. “Even I’m not that cold-hearted.”

Bethany laughs and tops off her glass from the bottle. “Anyway, I need to meet him first, don’t I?” At Hawke’s nod toward the bottle, she shrugs. “It’s the good stuff, so I’m parceling it out, trying to limit consumption. We’ll see how it works. Don’t change the subject, though! When am I going to get to meet him?”

“Yes, we’d all like to meet this young man of yours,” Leanda says, sweeping into the room. One of Hawke’s legs tenses, and he forces a smile at his mother. She isn’t drunk, he can tell that by looking at her. She still looks like she put effort into her appearance this morning, which Bethany has told him only happens on important days, like holidays when the family is together or bridge club days on third Thursdays. Her hair is pinned back expertly, her eyes are sharp as they fix on him, and her mouth frowns just slightly.

“We’re both pretty busy,” Hawke hedges. “I’m not sure when I’d be able to get the time. And anyway,” he says, glaring at Bethany, “we’ve only been dating for a few months. It’s not that serious yet.” Except he knows that’s a lie and from the look on Bethany’s face, she knows it too. At least, it’s a lie from where he stands. He can’t speak to the way Fenris feels, but ever since he met that small, white-haired man, he’s been slipping deeper until, at this point, he isn’t sure he could dig out again. The aftermath of the fight on Halloween really solidified it for him: he doesn’t want to lose Fenris. It does seem that Fenris feels something similar, if the way he acted after Hawke nearly fainted in his house is anything to go on.

“Except that you _never_ date anyone for longer than like a month, brother,” Bethany, the traitor, says, sipping demurely on her wine. Hawke glares at her and she smiles.

“Is there a reason you don’t want to bring him over?”

Great. A Bethany/Leandra tag-team. Hawke sighs and drags a hand over his face.

“I know you’re not thrilled when I date men, mother. I thought I would spare you.” He receives a patented mom-look for that remark and spreads his arms open, as if to invite her to contradict him. She knows as well as he does that he’s right and purses her lips.

“That doesn’t mean I want you to keep company with...questionable persons,” she rejoins. “I would like to make sure he is an honorable young man.”

Hawke snorts at the thought of Fenris being called a “young man.” “We’re not kids anymore, mother. Neither of us qualify as young men anymore. We’re just…” he shrugs, “men.”

Bethany giggle-snorts into her wine, and Leandra favors Hawke with another mom-look. 

“Are you being safe?”

Hawke chokes on air and turns an incredulous look on his mother. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Do not swear like that in my house,” Leandra scolds. “Of course I’m serious.”

“I haven’t had near enough to drink for this conversation.” Hawke makes grabby motions at Bethany and the bottle of wine. She rolls her eyes but fetches him a glass since she’s closer to the cabinets than he is. She passes over the bottle, and he fills his glass, taking a large few gulps and setting it down so he can plant his face in his hands.

“As much as we need to be, yes.”

Bethany gasps and covers her mouth with one hand. “Oh my god! You haven’t had sex yet, have you?”

“Aaand I’m done with this conversation.” Hawke grabs his glass of wine and walks out of the kitchen, followed by Bethany’s cackling laughter. The dining room is empty, they haven’t started putting out the sandwich fixings yet, and he abandons his glass on the sideboard to plant his hands on the back of one of the chairs around the table and hang his head between his arms. 

“I think it’s wise to wait.” Leandra’s voice floats over from the doorway between the two rooms. Bethany’s laughter has subsided enough that Hawke can actually hear his mother’s quiet voice.

“Enough,” he growls, not raising his head. “It’s none of your goddamn business anyway.”

She shuffles off, and he can hear her move back to the kitchen. He remains where he is, breathing as slowly and evenly as he can. He’d known Fenris would be a topic of conversation, that Bethany would bring him up as often as she could to get more information out of him, but he hadn’t expected the turn the conversation had taken. He isn’t shy about sex, far from it, really, but to discuss it with his mother and baby sister? About the one man he’s felt this strongly about? It was too much to handle, especially since he knows Fenris to be a fairly private person. He’s not about to divulge personal details like that when Fenris isn’t around to answer or object for himself. 

He texts Fenris, **_Save me_** , and pockets his phone, only to pull it out again immediately, surprised when it vibrates with a message.

F: **_That bad?_**

H: **_They’re prying._**

H: **_Aren’t you with your sister?_**

F: **_Soon. She’s running late._**

H: **_Good luck._**

F: **_Thanks :)_**

F: **_You too_**

F: **_xx_**

H: **_< 3_**

H: **_oh god, don’t ever tell Bethany I did that_**

F: **_lol, your secret is safe with me_**

F: **_< 3_**

It still shocks him, just a little, how a few short messages from Fenris can make him feel better, but there it is. They do. He smiles at his phone and runs his thumb across the screen, as if to caress the face on the other side. Thus bolstered, he grabs his wine glass and makes his own way back to the kitchen where he can hear Bethany and Leandra pulling the sandwich fixings out of the fridge.

They sit with all three of them on the sofa, even though it’s a tight fit, Bethany wedged in the middle, her wine glass on the side table next to Hawke’s, food balanced precariously on her knees. She argues with Hawke until he agrees to cede control of the remote to her, on the grounds that the movies he tends to pick end up being a little too intense for Leandra. On any other day he might not care enough, but since it’s Thanksgiving he gives in. Bethany starts with Monty Python and the Holy Grail, so he doesn’t regret his decision much.

By the time the movie is half over, they’ve finished the first bottle of wine and made a good dent in a second. Hawke keeps the bottle over on his side table but sometimes refills Leandra’s glass without looking when she holds it out to him, thinking it’s Bethany’s. Neither of them are paying as much attention to Leandra’s consumption as they had been earlier; they’re occupied quoting the movie back and forth to each other, laughing uproariously at particularly good, or bad, impressions. It’s one thing Hawke does wish he did more, just hang out with Bethany, but the two of them have never really had coordinating work schedules and consequently see each other less than they both would like.

“What _happened_ to your face?” Leandra asks when the movie ends, leaning over Bethany. “I would have asked earlier, but there were more important things being discussed.”

Hawke and Bethany exchange a look, eyebrows raised. “My face isn’t important?” Hawke mock-sobs, placing a hand over his wounded heart. “Mother, that’s terrible.”

“You _know_ what I mean,” she snaps and sips angrily from her wine glass.

“No, _mother_ ,” Hawke wasps back, “I’m not sure I know what you mean.” 

Bethany tries to surreptitiously press herself farther back into the cushions and fiddles with the remote.

“Fine. Apparently your mother can’t be worried about her son.”

“It’d help if she was worried more often.”

Leandra subsides back to her side of the couch as the opening of Flubber plays, and Bethany shoots an exasperated look at Hawke who shrugs his innocence and gets up to bring the pies in.

By the end of the movie, Leandra is asleep, her wine glass rescued by Bethany when it nearly slipped from her fingers. Hawke and Bethany get up from the couch, Bethany a little more carefully than Hawke, and retreat upstairs where they won’t disturb their mother. Bethany waves him toward her room, but he shakes his head and points down the hallway that will take him to Leandra’s room and their father’s old studio. Well, what Leandra has made into their father’s old studio, just like she made Carver’s room. Hawke hasn’t been in it a whole lot, since it unnerves him to be so wrapped in the past while standing in the present. But he figures, if any of Malcolm’s investigation into Cory survives, it will be in the one room he had mostly to himself.

Bethany raises her eyebrows at him, but follows Hawke down the hall and into Malcolm’s studio. She leans against the door jamb when Hawke stops two steps into the room, looking around to get his bearings.

“I come in here occasionally,” she says softly, smiling a little when Hawke looks back at her. “To paint. Sometimes it’s nice to be surrounded by his old stuff while I work on something new. Feels more like he’s still here.”

Hawke can see Bethany’s newer easel near the middle of the room, standing next to an older, battered one that had belonged to Malcolm. Bethany has put an old painting of his on the easel, one of the trees outside their house in Ferelden as they turned colors in the fall and began dropping leaves. Hawke swallows past a lump in his throat and approaches the painting, fingers stretching to touch it but falling back to his side before making contact. He remembers sitting next to Malcolm as he worked on this particular piece, playing with blocks on the floor. He’d crawled over Malcolm’s feet at one point, upsetting a brushstroke. That mistake is still here on the canvas, a slice of yellow arcing from the tree into the sky. Malcolm had smiled and laughed when it happened, gathering Hawke on his lap to show him. Any mistake can be turned into something better, he’d said, continuing to paint around it, but sometimes it’s good to keep them around to remind you of things.

Hawke scratches at his nose and the new scar there, then rubs his hand across his eyes. “How do you stand it in here?” His voice is quiet, but Bethany is next to him, having approached when he was lost in memory. Her small hand alights on his shoulder and she squeezes comfortingly.

“Practice.” They both laugh lightly. “It’s...becoming just another room in the house for me. I’ve come in here often enough that it’s losing some of the cosmic significance it used to have.”

“Cosmic significance?”

“Oh shut up.”

They stand in silence after that, contemplating the room and its significance, cosmic or otherwise. Hawke can’t help but feel that if Malcolm were still alive, he’d be able to temper Leandra, that maybe she wouldn’t get as upset when Hawke dates men. He would have liked Fenris, Hawke thinks. They share a quiet determination, each of them undaunted by the challenges life placed ahead of them, refusing to let any of it get in the way of what they have. 

He coughs, clearing his throat, and looks determinedly at the window, away from Bethany. Her hand squeezes his shoulder again, and he shuts his eyes tight. A pat to his arm and the soft click of the door are all that indicate Bethany’s left the room. He’s grateful to her, though angry at himself for being unable to contain his emotions better. 

He spends a few minutes staring at the window, regulating his breathing. When he’s sure he has a handle on himself, he picks his way slowly over to the boxes lining the far wall. Malcolm had eschewed shelving, preferring what he called the “treasure hunt” of opening box after box to find the thing he was after. Hawke sinks to the floor, crossing his legs, and opens the first box.

He’s not sure what he’s looking for and spends a frustrating few minutes sorting through a box filled almost entirely with paintbrushes before he gives that one up as a lost cause. A lot of what’s contained here is art supplies, and once he gets past the well of emotion that surges through him the first time he comes across one of Malcolm’s unfinished paintings, it goes faster. He does set aside a few brushes that he thinks Bethany would like. Malcolm had been pleased that at least one of his children took after him artistically, so Hawke doesn’t think he would mind some of his things passed on to her. Hopefully Bethany feels the same way.

Finally, buried beneath more palettes than any man should ever need, Hawke discovers what he was looking for: the journals of Malcolm Hawke. At least, he assumes it’s what he’s looking for. It’s the first thing he’s found that he thinks could hide information about Cory P. His father wrote a staggering amount, Hawke discovers, as he piles a few notebooks to the side and moves to the next box. It’s full of journals of all kinds, all looking pretty ratty around the edges from use. Some, from the amount of paint fingerprints on them, are mostly ideas and sketches for his paintings, to-buy lists for the art store, and notes on the artistic process. Hawke sets these aside for Bethany too. She went to school for painting, true, but he figures she might get something out of reading from her father instead of some dusty old scholar. That and they had only really begun to discuss the craft when he had died, so there’s probably a lot within their pages that she didn’t hear from him yet.

The rest he piles up in chronological order. It’s an large stack, intimidating in its height, and Hawke despairs for a moment of finding what he’s looking for within the volumes. It feels like the proverbial needle in a haystack, a needle he isn’t even sure is in this haystack. It’s just a very probable haystack. He sighs and shoves his fists into his eyes. This feels crazy, _he_ feels crazy, rooting around in his dead father’s possessions for evidence that a lunatic claims he had. But he can’t ignore it, can’t assume it doesn’t exist on the off chance that it does, that it can lead him, and the authorities he supposes, to the men who mugged his sister and the man who had his father killed. Assuming it’s all true.

The first few journals are spotty with their entries, Malcolm only picking them up every few months to comment about how he hardly writes but nothing interesting has really happened to him. Hawke snorts and shakes his head. He sounds like Carver, needing to be part of something special or exciting. Hawke skims, skipping large chunks of the journals even though a sizeable part of him wants to take all the books back to his house and read them, cover to cover. Life was easier, it made more sense when Malcolm had been alive. Maybe if he reads his father’s words, he’ll discover whatever hidden knowledge it was Malcolm possessed and find a way to bring meaning back into his life and Bethany’s and Leandra’s.

Fenris has helped with that, lending a stability to Hawke’s life that he hasn’t had for a long time. But he doesn’t want to rely solely on Fenris to bring significance to his life; it wouldn’t be fair of him to ask that. Somehow, some way, Hawke needs to figure it out himself. It would just be nice if he could talk to his father about it.

He opens the next journal to a random page and flips back to read the start of the entry:

_We finally moved the twins into their own room. Last night was the first without them with us. It felt strange, though it was nice to have Leandra to myself again and not share her attention with two demanding new humans. We set the baby monitor and fell asleep wrapped together, soon after crawling into bed. Not two hours later there’s crying from the other room. Leandra patted my arm and rolled back over so I got up and walked down the hall, but the crying stopped before I got to their room. Peeked in and what did I see?_

_Garrett had dragged his pillows and blankets from his room to sleep next to Bethany and Carver’s crib. He was standing on tiptoe with both arms stuck in the crib, one baby latched on to each hand and sound asleep. “Don’t worry, dad,” he told me. “I got it.”_

Hawke snorts. He remembers that night, watching Malcolm and Leandra tuck the babies in before they said their goodnights to him, waiting until he heard them moving around in their own room to slip out of bed and tug his quilt and pillow across the hall. He’d woken quickly when Bethany began squawling and Carver joined in. Though the rail of the crib had been high on him and dug into his armpits, even on tiptoe, he hadn’t hesitated in extending his hands to each of his baby siblings. They’d each grasped onto his fingers and quieted back to sleep. He remembers his father’s face, full of awe, surprise, and love. Malcolm had come into the room, not saying a word, and lowered the rail of the crib just enough that Hawke could sink back onto flat feet. He’d ruffled Hawke’s hair and kissed each of the twins before going back to his own room. Hawke had stood next to the crib, watching his brother and sister sleep until their tiny hands relaxed on his and he could pull his fingers free without fearing he’d wake them. Then, he’d curled back up on their floor and gone to sleep.

For the first year or two, he had taken turns with his parents going into the twins’ room to comfort them back to sleep when they woke crying. Leandra had been baffled by it, but Malcolm accepted it with a quiet smile, sometimes sitting up with Hawke when they reached the room at the same time. Hawke cherished those moments, just sitting in silence with his father until either he fell asleep leaning against him or Malcolm stirred them back to bed. When Bethany began showing signs of artistic talent, times like that with his father dwindled until they became simply a memory. He didn’t begrudge Bethany her time with Malcolm; after all, he’d had seven years to himself before the twins came along. He did miss it, though.

He flips a few more pages, scanning, then holds his breath as he reads an entry dated six months after the twins were born.

_Money has been tight. I’ve told Leandra that we need to be careful, spend money only when we absolutely have to. The district has done away with performance-based raises, raises in general, in fact. “Hard times” is what the board said. Means we all need to tighten our belts and be grateful we’re not fired. Maury, the man we named Carver after, the man who got me this job in the first place, was let go just last week. Sometimes it’s really hard to remember to be thankful I’m still employed._

_Leandra doesn’t know the half of it, though. I didn’t want to worry her, so I’ve been quietly taking money out of our savings account to help with the bills but…_

_Take enough out and it doesn’t matter how much you put in. It’ll run out eventually. I’ve put out feelers for a new job but no one hires art teachers anymore. If they do, the pay’s not worth it. The bank won’t front me for a loan either, and there’s not enough equity in the house to pull from. I need another option. This guy chatted me up while I was at Calanhad’s buying groceries (using a calculator to determine how much formula we can afford this week, really), said he knew of a guy that could help. I’m meeting him later this week._

_~ * ~ * ~ * ~_

_I met an intermediary who gave his name only as ‘L’. His employer can extend me a loan, get us through this spell at the district. I don’t have to start repaying for a few years; they understand times are hard. I can’t tell Leandra, but I need to provide for this family. May they never learn what I’ve done. I don’t know if Leandra would forgive me. Garrett might understand, when he’s older, but that doesn’t mean I want him to know._

So this is where it started. Some skeezy neighborhood loan because they couldn’t make ends meet. Hawke huffs out a breath. He’d had no idea growing up that the family was in that much trouble. Malcolm had done a good job hiding it from them all. 

Hawke closes his eyes. He does understand at least the main impetus behind the loan. Protecting this family is important to him, too. He’s not sure he understands the means, but he can’t fault his father for doing anything he could. He exhales heavily and sets the journal aside to lower his face into his hands. Now that he’s found the beginning, his drive to get to the end has flagged. Looking through all of his father’s old belongings has drained him, and all he wants to do is curl around Fenris and go to sleep but Fenris is with his sister and wasn’t sure when he would be home. So all Hawke has to look forward to is his empty house and his dog. He doesn’t want to go home but staying at his mother’s house much longer is also undesirable now. Grumbling to himself, Hawke piles the journals carefully back into a box, preserving their order. He leaves out the ones that predate what he’s looking at and shoves them back against the wall in the space the box leaves. 

“Leaving so soon?” Bethany asks from the door to her room when Hawke passes, box tucked under his arm. She looks at it and gives him a curious look but doesn’t say anything.

“The dog,” Hawke replies lamely, waving his free hand vaguely.

“Uh huh. Don’t be a stranger, brother.” She leaves her room to kiss his cheek and walk him to the door, grabbing the bottle of wine from the side table as she passes. Leandra is still sleeping on the couch. Hawke looks at her, trying to see the woman his father had fallen in love with, the mother she had been a decade ago, before the universe decided the family could use a string of heartache, but he can’t. That woman had been buried with Malcolm.

“I’ll text you.” He pulls on his jacket and digs fingerless gloves out of the pockets before venturing out into the gathering night.

He sets the box of journals on his spotless kitchen table when he gets home, absently scratching Cheerio’s head as he texts Fenris, wishing him a good rest of his night. It isn’t very late, and Hawke putters around his house, looking busy but not accomplishing much. He avoids looking at the box of journals, glancing away as if scalded every time he accidentally makes eye contact with it. Eventually he sinks down onto the couch and flips channels.

F: **_You are still awake, yes?_**

H: **_Of course. What’s up?_**

F: **_I’m coming over._**

H: **_Is something wrong?_**

No response from Fenris. Hawke paces from the couch to the front window, peering out at the dark street, returning to his seat only to get up a minute later and repeat the circuit. It’s a relief when a knock sounds on the door, and he lets himself relax into the cushions.

“I forgot to lock it,” he yells. “Come on in.” When nothing happens, he frowns and goes to open the door himself.

Fenris stands on his porch, arm half raised toward the door knob. He’s dressed all in dark colors, a black beanie obscuring most of his white hair, and his eyes dart up to Hawke’s, looking for all the world like a lost puppy. Hawke opens the door wide, reaching out to take Fenris’s raised hand in one of his and tug him gently into the house. He folds both arms around him, reaching back with a foot to kick the door closed, and pulls the beanie off so he can sink his fingers into the soft, pale hair.

“What’s wrong?”

Fenris shakes his head and buries his face in Hawke’s neck, hugging Hawke with almost breathtaking force. Hawke doesn’t speak again, just stands there holding Fenris, rubbing his fingers gently into the base of his skull until Fenris’s grip begins to ease. Slowly he leads Fenris toward the couch, sitting down near one arm. Fenris tucks his legs up and curls in the small space between Hawke and the arm of the couch, wrapping his arms around his stomach as he presses his face into Hawke’s shoulder.

Hawke turns the volume on the TV down until it’s a comforting background murmur. He rubs one palm up and down Fenris’s back and rests his cheek on his head after planting a kiss there. Though worried about Fenris, part of him exults in the knowledge that Fenris chose to come see him because something is bothering him and he needs comfort. If Hawke still held any questions about whether Fenris feels as strongly for him as he does for Fenris, they’re answered now.

Finally, Fenris takes a shaky breath in, releasing it all in a _whoosh_. “I am alone,” he says softly. Hawke frowns, picking his head off Fenris’s and looking down at him.

“I’m here.”

The look Fenris gives him breaks his heart. He’s never seen a sadder smile, never known eyes so beautiful could look so hopeless. And then Fenris places a hand on his cheek, just for a moment, and Hawke swears he can hear the tinkling of shards as the pieces of his heart hit the bottom of his chest.

“Fenris, what happened?”

Fenris looks away, worrying at the inside of his cheek. “It’s my sister. I didn’t tell you, but this is the first time I’ve seen her in...nearly twenty years. Since the beginning of my relationship with Dan. She is the only family I have left.” He laughs bitterly. “And now I have no one.”

He sighs and raises one hand to rub his forehead. “Dan sent her. She is in his pocket now as I once was. She only agreed to meet me to gather information for him.”

“I’m sorry,” Hawke says into the silence that stretches. “Where is she now?”

“I sent her running home to her master,” Fenris spits. “I couldn’t let her stay. I wanted to...but I couldn’t. My life is not for him anymore.”

“Hm, I should let you meet Bethany sometime. She’d love to sister you.”

Fenris huffs a laugh and turns his face back to nuzzle Hawke’s chest. “I’d like that.”

They stay like that, folded together for a while longer, Fenris slowly uncurling until his legs are sprawled across Hawke’s. Hawke keeps his arms wrapped around Fenris, rubbing circles in his back or running through his hair. He half-watches the TV, occasionally dropping kisses on Fenris’s head to hear the small sound of contentment the smaller man makes. Eventually, after one such kiss is greeted with silence, Hawke discovers that Fenris has fallen asleep, his breaths deep and even. He smiles, shocked and pleased, and carefully gathers him in his arms and stands, heading upstairs. With one hand he flips down the sheets on his bed, settling Fenris in. He foregoes pajamas when distressed noises come from Fenris as Hawke moves across the bedroom and instead crawls in beside Fenris, fully dressed too. He inches closer, still taking care to not wake Fenris, and wraps his arms around him again, burying his face in Fenris’s hair. He’s asleep in minutes.


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke and Fenris make the most of their Black Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets dedicated to the delightful [hollyand](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyand/pseuds/hollyand) for its gratuitous use of em dashes!
> 
> Rating change from mature to explicit

_“Venhedis!”_

Hawke is startled awake by the exclamation a bare second before a foot catches him in the stomach and hurls him bodily from the bed. He groans and curls up, wrapping his arms around his middle: shit but Fenris is strong. If this is even a modicum of what the thugs who surprised them at Fenris’s house felt, he almost feels bad for them. Almost but not actually. He gulps for breath on the floor, while above him he can hear Fenris thrashing and panicking, desperate breaths and terrified whimpers. Some of the covers fall off the bed.

“Fenris,” Hawke wheezes. Too softly, Fenris can’t hear him. Hawke grunts and levers himself to a sitting position so he can actually see Fenris once he fumbles the light switch on. His white hair is plastered to his forehead above wide, unseeing eyes; the leg he didn’t use to kick Hawke is tangled in the sheet, and Hawke would place a bet that it’s not helping the situation at all. He winces, touches his stomach tenderly, his expression sour as he imagines the bruise forming under his shirt, and tries again.

“Fenris.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Fenris babbles from the bed, his limbs calming though his breathing is still rough and erratic. “It was an accident, I didn’t mean to—I was so tired, it won’t happen again, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Well, shit. Hawke takes a deep breath and hopes the third time’s the charm. “Fenris, it’s me. Just Hawke.” The expression on Fenris’s face turns from abject terror to confusion, and he blinks his eyes quickly, as if trying to clear them of whatever visions running through his head. His breaths begin to come slower, just barely.

“You’re at my house,” Hawke continues, doing his best to speak without groaning. “You fell asleep on the couch with me, and I brought you upstairs. I thought the bed might be more comfortable. I’m sorry, I didn’t think—” 

He really didn’t think. He’d assumed that maybe since Fenris had fallen asleep on his couch, his trouble sleeping in other beds than his own was over. How could he have been so stupid? It had been a childishly selfish thought, one that Fenris is paying for. Hawke considers his stomach his just deserts now. He gets up into a crouch, ignoring the twinge in his belly, and sidles to the foot of the bed, slowly reaching out to untangle Fenris’s leg from the sheet.

Fenris startles and jerks away at the touch, pulling the sheet taut and prompting another panicked bout of flailing. Hawke leans back, raising his hands. He bites his lower lip, his eyebrows drawn together in helpless consternation. He has no idea what to do here, but Fenris had started to relax when Hawke talked to him so… He sits back on his haunches, watching Fenris from the foot of the bed, and starts talking.

“When, uh, when we settled in our house in Lothering, there was this giant tree in the backyard. Carver and I insisted that our father build us a treehouse there.” He chuckles softly. “Dad looked at it, back at us, and said he would need magic to build something there. I mean, that tree was huge. The first branch was a good three feet above my head at the time. So we thought that was that, then. Carver and I went back to climbing the other trees nearby. Then dad sent us both to summer camp for a few weeks. Worst few weeks of my life, up to that point, anyway. Carver liked it though, so that was good. A lot of little meathead boys gathered in one place felt like home, I guess.

“Anyway, when we got back, turns out father had managed to scale the tree and build the world’s worst treehouse. Fell apart after a couple weeks of hard play, but the fact that he’d tried… That was worth a lot to me. Carver was a tit about it when it broke, but he was pretty young then still. Didn’t understand what it had cost to get up and why it couldn’t be rebuilt. I don’t think our father got new art supplies for nearly a year.”

Hawke is speaking to the floor by this point, his eyes slowly dropping from Fenris as he told his tale. The weight of the past. Like most of his memories from that time, it’s bittersweet, the pain of remembering mingling with the relief that he can still recall the good times. And they were good then, he has to remind himself, however much they’re tainted by grief now. If Malcolm hadn’t died, if he hadn’t needed that loan… In all likelihood the family would never have moved to Kirkwall and Hawke would never have met Fenris. He isn’t sure that’s a fair trade, his father for Fenris, but Fenris is the one good thing to come out of all of it so far.

“Hawke?”

The voice from the bed is soft, but Hawke’s gaze immediately snaps back up. Fenris regards him with a somewhat wary expression, his legs folded, having somehow managed to free himself from the sheet while Hawke wasn’t paying attention, his hands clasped in front of his ankles.

“Fenris, I am so sorry—”

“It is done, Hawke.”

There is no anger in his voice, he just sounds tired, but Hawke presses his lips together in shame anyway. He opens his mouth as if to say something but sighs instead and shuts it again. Fenris watches him from the bed, his expression softening as they sit in silence until he’s nearly gained his normal face back.

“Do—do not do that again. Please. I feel I’ve lost years off my life from the shock of waking up somewhere unfamiliar.” Hawke nods glumly, dropping his eyes again.

“Though,” Fenris continues, and his tone takes on a lighter note, sounding almost amused, “I did get nearly four straight hours of sleep. That has to be a record, don’t you think?” He smiles slightly at Hawke when the other man looks up, confusion writ large on his face. “I forgive you, Hawke. You acted out of kindness, even if it went to shit. Just...ask me next time?”

The thought of a next time has Hawke struggling to breathe so he simply nods. Fenris unclasps his hands, extending one to Hawke, and Hawke stands, grimacing at the groan in his knees. He moves to kneel in front of Fenris on the bed, cupping his face in one hand. Fenris turns his head to press a kiss into Hawke’s palm, then wraps an arm around him, tugging Hawke with him as he lays back down on the bed. Hawke presses light, apologetic kisses into Fenris’s neck until Fenris reaches up, grabs his face, and kisses him fiercely. A low groan escapes him, and Hawke returns the kiss with fervor, crushing Fenris to him with one arm while his other hand slips under Fenris’s shirt and plays patterns along his side.

Fenris’s hands leave Hawke’s face, moving down to grab his own shirt’s hem and pull it over his head. He lays back down, but Hawke pulls back, his eyes drinking in the sight. It’s not the first time he’s seen Fenris without his shirt, but it still catches him by surprise, the lean muscle criss-crossed by the white tattoos that wind their way all across his chest. With one hand, he reaches out, tracing some of the lines. Part of him is repulsed that he finds them beautiful because they were given to him by a man who so obviously abused Fenris’s nature and didn’t deserve him at all. The rest of him loves them because they are part of who Fenris is and he loves who Fenris is.

Hawke’s hand stutters, and the smile on Fenris’s face morphs into concern. Hawke bends over to nip near one of the white lines on Fenris’s stomach and the concern just as swiftly turns into pleasure, his eyes closing. Breathing a mental sigh of relief, Hawke continues his attentions on the captivating belly before him, sucking a mark into the skin above Fenris’s hipbone. That whole...love...thing will just have to wait until later, when he’s alone to sort out just where that came from.

For now, he focuses on enjoying the noises Fenris makes beneath him, the sensation of Fenris gripping his head as he works, how his fingers tighten when he nuzzles farther down and mouths at the bulge in Fenris’s pants. Hawke chuckles, wrapping his hands underneath Fenris’s knees and laughing outright at the surprised squawk Fenris makes when he pulls him to the edge of the bed, letting his legs go to hang off the side. He leans down to kiss his way up Fenris’s torso, spending a few minutes lost when he gets up to his mouth and Fenris is kissing him back.

Fenris lunges up at him when he backs off, and Hawke smiles as he pins Fenris back to the bed with one hand where he wriggles half-heartedly. Hawke knows Fenris could throw him off if he truly wanted. “Peace,” he says, lifting his hand. “Trust me.” Fenris subsides and watches as Hawke stands up and slowly begins to undress. His eyes turn downright lustful, and he casually places both hands under his head, staring openly. Hawke shivers. His fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt, but he manages to get them undone and let the thing slip from his shoulders. Fenris’s eyes narrow, and Hawke throws him what he hopes comes off as a cocky smile. He can’t be sure; he’s feeling entirely too flustered here. Doing this with Fenris, it’s… It feels like something more than it has with anyone previously. Thankfully, however, he _has_ done this before with other lovers and falls back into the familiar, unfastening his jeans and pushing them partway down his hips. Then he stretches, reaching up with his arms, tightening his body and the pants slide the rest of the way down his legs themselves. This time he does smirk at the look on Fenris’s face. He picks his feet up slowly, one at a time, shaking them free, before he reaches for the waistband of his boxers.

“Wait.” Fenris’s voice is hoarse and he licks his lips. Hawke looks at him, one eyebrow raised. “Let me.” One corner of Hawke’s mouth twitches up, pleased, and he strolls back over to the bed, standing between Fenris’s legs. Fenris lets him stand there for a minute as his eyes roam across every inch of dark skin Hawke has exposed before sitting up and sliding his hands down Hawke’s back and under the last remaining piece of clothing. He massages Hawke’s ass, leaning forward to kiss and nip his way across Hawke’s abdomen, from hipbone to hipbone. Hawke groans, his head falling back, and Fenris laughs lightly as his teeth graze from bone to fabric. He pulls the garment out and down, deftly leaving Hawke’s erection untouched, chuckling at the frustrated growl above him.

And then Hawke is on his knees in front of Fenris, reaching forward with hands and mouth to undo Fenris’s jeans and lavish attention on each piece of tattooed skin he uncovers. Hawke runs his hands down Fenris’s legs, following the tattoos from hips to toes, marveling at their extent. Fenris looks at him, somewhat abashed, and Hawke kisses at the cleft between hip and thigh, one hand gently pushing Fenris back, one creeping up the backside of his thigh to brush at the sensitive skin there. Hawke kisses over and nuzzles at the thatch of hair, letting out a pleased “mmmm” at the gasp from Fenris as he noses up his length. 

“You’re so soft,” he murmurs, rubbing his face and nose up and down Fenris’s cock. Fenris growls, lifting his head to glare at Hawke.

“I will strangle you with my legs if you do not get on with it,” he rejoins, lifting one leg to place it on Hawke’s shoulder, giving him a warning tap. Hawke doesn’t seem to take him seriously and continues nosing at him, breathing lightly on the tip. “Hawke,” Fenris snarls.

Hawke chuckles, drags his nose up one last time, and takes Fenris in his mouth, diving down until his nose presses against the light hair there. Under him, Fenris arches, hissing and panting. Hawke hums around him, wrapping one arm around the leg Fenris has on his shoulder while the other hand cups Fenris’s balls, squeezing and stroking, occasionally reaching back to tease his perineum. 

“ _Fasta_...hnnnng... _vass_ ,” Fenris curses as Hawke bobs his head up and down, wrapping his tongue around in delicious circles. He groans as the vibrations from Hawke’s chuckle resonate around him and clutches at the remaining sheets on the bed. He wraps his other leg around Hawke, using them to draw him closer but it’s not enough, not nearly enough. He needs more. He squeezes Hawke’s head with his legs until the big man looks up at him and slowly pulls off his cock.

“Fenri—” Hawke asks, but that’s as far as he gets. With a twist and a wiggle, Fenris has Hawke on his back on the floor of the bedroom, though at least some of the covers he pushed off in his panic earlier are there underneath them.

“Where?” he asks, and Hawke points toward a nightstand.

“First drawer.”

“Stay,” he commands, rising and stalking to the nightstand to riffle through the drawer in question. He’s pleased to see Hawke has obeyed when he returns, though the man has stretched out, placing himself on full display. He watches Fenris with hooded eyes as the smaller man drops to his knees, the fingers of one hand already slick. He lets Fenris manipulate his legs, spreading them, bending one, heart beating fast in anticipation. He bucks his hips once as Fenris seems to halt, concern clouding his features again.

“Is this alr—”

“Maker, Fenris, yes. I’m flexible. Just fuck me already!”

Still Fenris hesitates, so Hawke half sits, grabbing Fenris’s lubed hand in one of his and guiding it between his legs. He meets Fenris’s eyes, somber brown to brilliant green, and smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. “You can have all of me if you want it.” His voice is hushed but heated, and his eyes fairly smolder. “How much of me d—” He breaks off with a shudder and a gasp, his eyes rolling up in his head as a finger probes against his hole.

“All of you.” Hawke shivers at the promise in Fenris’s voice, meeting his eyes once more before lying back down, arms splayed above his head. “I need all of you.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

They lie on the floor together after cleaning up, Hawke wiggling and pulling until he manages to tug the blanket underneath them over them. Fenris tucks up under Hawke’s chin, one arm sandwiched between their bodies, the other draped across Hawke’s chest.

“I suppose you have the day off?” Hawke asks eventually. He can feel his stomach start to growl and knows he’ll need to move soon, he just can’t bring himself to do it yet.

“Mm,” Fenris affirms, his eyes closed and peaceful.

“Bastard office jobs,” Hawke grumbles into Fenris’s hair. “The rest of us have to work, you know.”

Fenris frowns, and he tightens his grip on Hawke’s shoulder. “Not yet.”

“Not for a while yet,” he agrees. It’s still very early morning. Fenris hadn’t slept for very long before waking, and they haven’t been on the floor for more than an hour or two. Darkness presses close outside the window, and Hawke is glad for the light he turned on earlier. It seems to shrink the world so that it feels they are the only two people in it, at least for now. With his arms wrapped around Fenris, one hand lightly stroking his hair, everything seems right. Fenris hums, a contented sound, as Hawke reaches with his fingers to massage the scalp under all that white hair, and rubs his fingers across the flesh of Hawke’s shoulder. His eyebrows draw together when his fingers find the puckered ridge of a scar, and he traces around it for a minute.

“Where did you get this?”

“Hm? Oh, that? Bar fight, back when I was just drinking in them, not bouncing. Some idiot bastard had the poor sense to insult Ferelden to Carver’s face right after we’d moved. He never quite settled in here, though he hadn’t been too worked up about moving, either. Just one of those things. Absence makes the heart grow fonder or whatever.”

“And?” Fenris’s fingers still on the scar, a three-quarter circle in the space below his collarbone.

“And the asshole made some remark about Ferelden being cold and wet and full of dogs and the people being little better than their animals, so Carver turns round to him and says that the shittiest dog in Ferelden is worth more than some poncy Kirkwallian git. Carv’s my little brother, so I stand up by him. Next thing we know, about half the bar flies at us. One of them smashed a bottle and,” here Hawke mimes a stabbing motion. “Reflexes weren’t as good then as now, though I call it a win since he’d been going for my face.” He shrugs, and Fenris’s body rocks with the motion.

“All in all, not very exciting,” he concludes. Fenris grunts and snuggles closer, slotting on of his legs between Hawke’s.

“You don’t talk about your brother much.”

Hawke stiffens at that, his hand freezing on Fenris’s head. He closes his eyes, willfully relaxing each muscle in turn, though he can’t do anything about the mounting tension in his jaw. “Yeah, well,” he says lamely. Fenris strokes his hand down Hawke’s arm, repeating the motion and not speaking, somehow understanding he shouldn’t yet.

His inability to keep Carver safe is what keeps Hawke up at night, what wakes him up in the early mornings, fear choked and sweating. His fault, all his fault, that his brother had run off to join the Templars. He’d driven him to it, always demanding that Carver stay a step behind him in all things. But his attempt at protection had chafed Carver, and they were too much alike, too angry, too stubborn, too worried about Leandra and Bethany. In hindsight he could see where he went wrong, see what he should have done differently, how he could have kept Carver from dying, and, by extension, Wesley Vallen. But even though he can see it, knows exactly what not to do, Hawke can’t say he’d do anything any differently if given a chance to go back and try again. Because the way to save Carver is to _let him_ do what he was going to do, let him go to the Templars, _stand aside_ and not interfere, and that is something that Hawke simply cannot do.

“Yeah, well,” he repeats, “he was an idiot.” A dead idiot, thanks to Hawke. He stares at the ceiling, trying not to sigh or cry or rage, all the things he wants to do, that he might do were he alone. Instead he swallows it down, and if Fenris notices that the hand wrapped around his back has formed a fist, he doesn’t say anything.

He does, after a few minutes, get up, reaching out his hands toward Hawke. “I am hungry,” he rumbles, “you are too. We’re getting food.”

“Where?” Hawke takes the offered hands and stands. His eyes roam down Fenris’s body, widening in appreciation, and he hums in satisfaction, not bothering to hide it because he is _not_ a gentleman. Fenris chuckles, flushing a little even as he preens under the attention before turning to pick up his pants and toss Hawke’s to him.

“Do you not have any food in this house?”

Hawke honestly isn’t sure. He shrugs, shimmying his pants up his hips. Fenris scoffs, and Hawke detects a tremor in his voice. He looks up sharply to find Fenris hunched over, shivering, even with his shirt on. A few long steps to his dresser and a couple open drawers later, and he’s shoving a sweatshirt at Fenris’s nose. It’s incredibly too big for him once he pulls it on, but it makes Hawke smile when Fenris looks up and lifts his arms, his hands not even fully making it out of the sleeves.

“Not a word, Hawke,” he threatens, then walks out of the room as if he’s dressed to the nines instead of in a borrowed sweatshirt that falls halfway down his thighs and ripples around him when he walks, as if it’s half a step from drowning him. Hawke snickers but follows him down the stairs.

The dog looks up from his rug near the door when the two men enter the kitchen, shaking himself off and trotting over to see about his breakfast. Both Hawke and Fenris pet him, Hawke kneeling down to give Cheerio a good scratching while Fenris moves on to look through Hawke’s fridge and cabinets, muttering to himself all the while. It is astonishingly remarkable how little food Hawke actually does have in his house, but Fenris finds an unopened box of spaghetti at the back of the pantry and sets water to boiling. Hawke remembers what it was like the last time he tried to help Fenris in the kitchen, that is, he was forcibly ejected, and seats himself on a stool at the island, chin in his hands, watching Fenris work after placing out the dog’s food.

Fenris pulls a few jars and bottles from cabinets, lining them up on the counter next to the stove, and places a colander in the sink. Hawke didn’t even know he had half of what Fenris has touched. He assumes Bethany left it for him at some point, though he can’t think of when she was last over. That’s...a little worrisome, but if Fenris has judged the food safe for consumption, that’s good enough for him.

“Why is it so bloody cold in the south?” Fenris complains, giving the pasta a stir on the stove and fixing Hawke with a look that says it’s his fault. He’s partially huddled over the pot on the stove, letting the steam from the boiling water float up against his chin and neck.

Hawke, himself still shirtless, shrugs in confusion. “It’s not? Try Ferelden. Winters there are shit.”

Fenris’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “I think you have given me ample reason to never visit there,” he says, pulling the sleeve of one arm down completely over his hand, balling the end up in his fist. He then transfers the pasta stirrer to that hand and does the same for his other sleeve. Hawke watches in delight.

“And you’ve just given me ample reason to never turn my heat up. Maker, you’re adorable.”

The look Fenris gives him is death. He’s died, hasn’t he? There’s no way he could get looked at like that and still be living. He laughs lightly and gets up to check the thermostat anyway, setting it a few degrees higher than it had been. Heat is one of those things that Hawke has mostly done without since moving to Kirkwall; it saves a massive amount on the utility bills if you keep your house just above the recommended temperature so you don’t freeze your pipes. It was a trick he picked up back when they still lived with his uncle and had to choose between heat and saving money so they could move out. Ferelden had been colder, and as much as he’s gotten used to the climate here, he still keeps his house pretty chilly. Apparently.

The heat kicks on, and Fenris flashes him a grateful look as he dumps the pasta water. He pours olive oil into the pot and adds scatterings of different herbs and spices, letting them simmer together for a while before he slides the pasta back in and twirls it all around. The whole pot he simply pours out into a large serving bowl and fetches two forks from where he remembers Hawke had grabbed the spoons when they’d had ice cream all that time ago. Hawke gives him an amused look as he places the bowl down on the island between them and sits on his own stool. Fenris just shrugs and offers a fork, setting to the spaghetti immediately.

Between the two of them, they put away nearly half of the bowl. When they’ve both lain down their forks and made no overtures toward the pasta for a few minutes, Hawke gets up and stretches plastic wrap over the top so he can fridge it for later. Then he leans over the island, reaching for Fenris’s hands, wrapped again in sleeves, and holds them between his own. Part of him is still wary, the part that told him to run away, run away and not look back after he first met Fenris. Wary now, though, that despite the mounting evidence, Fenris does not reciprocate Hawke’s feelings. The rest of him is terrified. Terrified that something will happen to Fenris too. Being close to Hawke doesn’t seem to do wonders for anyone’s life span. He bends over their joined hands and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s never been particularly religious, none of his family ever was, but here in this moment, he wishes desperately that he can keep Fenris, and if that sounds like a prayer, well, no one has to know.

When he raises his head, Fenris is watching him, a fond if bemused expression on his face. “Hawke…” He says the name softly, rising on his stool to lean closer. He gently slips his hands from under Hawke’s. The way he grabs Hawke’s neck and kisses him, however, is anything but soft and gentle. It’s all sharpness and teeth, coiled and released tension, and it’s exactly what Hawke needs. He matches Fenris’s restrained brutality with his own, grips Fenris’s hair in one fist and his bicep in another, holding on for dear life. He sinks into Fenris and rises, panting, when Fenris breaks away, resting their foreheads together.

Fenris smiles at him and traces a gentle finger down his face. “There you are.”

“Where did I go?” Hawke huffs.

Fenris’s smile turns sad. “I do not know.”

Hawke circles the island to stand flush with Fenris, kissing his temple and wrapping his arms around Fenris’s waist. “Come with me next time,” he says, burying his face in Fenris’s shoulder, even though he’s not sure what he means by that. Not in the context of the current conversation which seems to have dived into metaphors and veiled words, and that’s not something he’s very good at. He prefers straight talking, none of that dancing around crap. Fenris does too, generally, though it can take longer for him to get around to the talking part if the topic is sensitive. It’s another thing he lo—appreciates about him. 

Maker, what’s wrong with him? One tumble and his mind is turning to mush. Next thing he knows he’ll be out singing songs and picking flowers. When did _love_ ever become part of this?

His exhale turns into a moan as one of Fenris’s hands deftly massages his neck. He leans, resting his weight against Fenris, who is solid and holds him up, who doesn’t let him fall, hasn’t ever crumpled under him. Oh, now he’s getting maudlin, this just will not do.

“Fenris, can we do something today?” He pulls back, though it’s torture to lose the massage even if Fenris keeps his hand cupped round his neck.

“We already did,” is Fenris’s amused response. He runs his thumb along the tendons in Hawke’s neck. “Though I could be persuaded to do more.” One corner of his mouth tips upward slyly, and Hawke finds himself breathless for a moment. He turns away, not capable of speaking while looking directly at Fenris.

“I need to get out,” he says, and one of his feet lifts off the ground to start tapping a rhythm on his toes. “I just… Please?” And he hates how that sounds, how pathetic he must look, all strung nerves and nowhere to go.

Fenris’s eyebrows draw together for a brief moment before he says, “of course,” and Hawke is relieved to see no trace of pity in the other man’s expression. He wouldn’t be able to bear that. “Now?”

It’s Hawke’s turn to furrow his eyebrows. “It’s like 4:00 in the morning.”

“And?”

“And it’s fucking cold outside!”

Fenris smiles patiently. “I am sure you have more clothing I could borrow.” When Hawke still gives him an incredulous look, toes still bouncing off the floor, he sighs and drops a pointed look toward Hawke’s feet. “It is obvious you need to be moving. So we shall.” He removes his hand from Hawke’s neck and retrieves his beanie from somewhere near the door, patting the dog as he does so.

Hawke gives in. He brings down some of his smallest clothes from upstairs, letting Fenris dress in several more layers of shirts before offering his red hoodie and a pair of gloves. Fenris looks pleased as he pushes his arms through the sleeves, zipping it up to his chin and ducking down into the cowl the hood makes around his face. Hawke wraps the scarf Fenris gave him about his neck and pulls on a different hoodie and a leather jacket before opening the front door and letting them out into the predawn gloom.

They wander around the neighborhood, Hawke walking as swiftly as his long legs can take him, Fenris calmly trotting at his side. Eventually Hawke slows down, some of the steam working its way out of him, and he and Fenris wind around the nearby park. Each of them have their hands stuffed deep in their pockets, but they walk close together, bumping elbows more often than not. Neither moves to change that.

Hawke turns for a second circuit of the park but instead of continuing to walk, sags onto a bench, shoulders slumped, head nearly touching his knees. Fenris climbs onto the bench, squatting on his feet instead of sitting, and leans against Hawke. 

“I’m so tired,” Hawke sighs, staring at the ground. Fenris hums.

“We should probably go back to bed.”

Hawke looks up at Fenris, raising an eyebrow, and Fenris smiles. Hawke laughs once, returning his gaze to the ground. “I’m not opposed,” he says, but the way he says it has Fenris frowning, peering at his face in the darkness and trying to see his expression.

“Are you alright, Hawke?”

He doesn’t respond for a while, just sits and stares, folding his hands together in front of him. It’s a funny question, because on the one hand, he’s the most alright he’s been in a while, being here with Fenris on this strange early, early morning. On the other, he’s decidedly _not_ alright, what with all the shit that’s coming up because of something his dead father did and the anxiety surrounding trying to figure out _anything_ that could keep his family, and Fenris, safe. Fenris, who has been attacked now too, in his own home, because of Hawke. But that all feels like too much to say, so he simply says, “no,” and they huddle together on that bench as the sun begins to rise, painting the cold landscape in tones of golden rose. Hawke barely sees it. But finally he gets up and shoves his hands in his pockets and jerks his head in the direction of his house and says, “my ass is cold.”

Fenris laughs most of the way back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're basically back to a regular posting schedule! Though we'll see how long that lasts with the holidays coming up quickly here...


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke goes Christmas shopping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> s/o to my SO and also flaresandwisdom for helping me with ideas on this chapter when I got stuck. Next week: Christmas! (no, actually, in fic-land and IRL) Someone help us.

“Take me for coffee,” Bethany demands. She’d called the second after Hawke texted her ( _ **Help**_ ). An ill-advised act, really.

“What, now?” He has the gall to sound offended at the suggestion, as though he has better things to do than hang out with his baby sister. Bethany scoffs.

“Of course now. You have to work in a few hours, and don’t try to get out of this. I’m not helping over text. It’s coffee or nothing.”

Which is how Hawke finds himself sitting outside of Redcliffe Coffee, holding a steaming cup of over-caffeination and staring morosely at the curb. Bethany sits beside him, sipping on something tealike and herbal; honestly, who bypasses perfectly good coffee for tea? Sometimes Hawke doubts they’re related, but Bethany was always different, bucking the established Hawke mold that Carver had always fit well in, despite his insistence to the contrary. On occasion Hawke catches himself thinking that Carver really was the better of the twins to die, since he and Hawke had always clashed where Bethany complemented both of them. Hawke spends long moments in self-flagellation whenever that thought crosses his mind. In a perfect world, he would still have them both.

“Sooo?” Bethany bumps Hawke’s shoulder with hers, careful not to spill his still-full cup of coffee. “What’s up?” 

When Hawke doesn’t answer, just takes a sip of his coffee and continues staring, Bethany stomps her foot and punches his arm. Coffee spills out the small mouthpiece, dripping over Hawke’s hands and onto the stone paving. He hisses, more in surprise than hurt, the crisp, near-December air cooling the drink quickly, and shakes one hand free of coffee drops.

“What the fuck, Bethany?”

She just gives him a look that says he should know exactly what the fuck. He sighs. He does know exactly what the fuck.

“Big brother, if you do not start speaking, I will assume the worst case scenario and nothing you say will stop me from murdering Fenris for breaking your heart.”

Hawke nearly drops his coffee.

“Ah good, I got your attention.” Bethany smiles thinly and gestures with one hand. “Talk.”

And then there are times when Hawke knows without a shadow of a doubt that they’re related. He sighs again.

“Fenris came over last night.”

“ _Oh my god!_ Did you finally have _sex_??” Bethany squeals.

Hawke nearly facepalms his coffee. “Why don’t you say that louder? I don’t think Isabela heard you.”

“Sorry.” To her credit, she does look at least a little contrite. “But did you? I don’t need details, ‘cause ew, but you did, right?”

“Yes, Bethy. Just don’t bake a cake, shit.”

Bethany giggles and claps her hands, bouncing a little on the bench they’re sharing. She subsides when Hawke doesn’t display any of the joy usually following such an exciting development. He simply sits, expression somber and close. Bethany takes a sip of her tea, then:

“He didn’t _actually_ leave you, did he?” she asks quietly, the cup slowly coming away from her lips in horror.

“What? No. He… Everything’s fine.” 

The wind picks up for a moment, blowing down the street, chilling their fingers around their cups. Bethany curls one hand in on itself and grips the cup against her fist, trying to warm the cold digits. She had gotten cold easily back in Ferelden, and Kirkwall had proved to be much the same. Hawke digs into his pockets and hands over his gloves, fingerless though they are; he could never stand to see her even remotely chilly. Bethany accepts the gloves, smiling at him, her smile freezing in place as another gust of wind tugs free the end of Hawke’s scarf and sets it flapping.

“Brother...what is that?”

Hawke tucks the scarf back into his jacket with one hand, studiously avoiding Bethany’s gaze. “Fenris—”

“Oh my god, you’re in love.” Neither of them says anything more for a minute. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? You love Fenris and you don’t know what to do about it.”

Hawke takes a few long pulls on his coffee.

“It is!” Bethany flings her arms around him, squeezing him tight. Hawke grips his coffee a little tighter so it doesn’t get knocked from his hand. “I’m so happy for you!”

Hawke grunts, and Bethany pulls away, peering at him intently. “So you haven’t told him. That’s what the whole “help” message was about. I see. Well, brother, as your guidance counselor, I recommend you tell him. It’s not fair to either of you if you just carry this around by yourself. You owe it to him to trust him enough with the truth.”

Hawke sighs into his coffee.

“Hey, if you didn’t want my opinion, you shouldn’t have texted me. Tough love, that’s what little sisters are for.” Bethany slings an arm around Hawke’s shoulders and tugs him upright. “Come on. I’ll walk you to work.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“You can say no.”

Fenris arches an eyebrow at Hawke and makes a grabby motion toward his shoes from where he sits on a bench near his back door. Hawke hands them to him. “But I didn’t say no.”

“But you can.”

Fenris pauses, halfway through lacing up one shoe. “Do you not want me to go with you?”

“No, it’s—I just—I don’t want you to...feel like you have to go just because I asked you to.” Hawke rubs a hand across the back of his neck, grimacing. The only response he gets is a snort from Fenris as he finishes tying his shoes. Fenris stands, grabs his jacket from where Hawke has it slung over his arm, and shrugs it on.

“I appreciate you giving me the option.” He smiles slightly, cupping Hawke’s face for a moment before turning to open the door. “I like spending time with you, though, so this is no hardship. What are we getting, anyway?”

“Bethany sent me a _very_ extensive list.”

Fenris drives them to an uppity fine arts retailer he knows of, and Hawke just kind of hands over Bethany’s list to the least pretentious looking employee he can find. Thankfully Bethany has also been very specific in her list because the employee is able to find most of it with minimal fuss. Anything the store doesn’t have or the employee has questions about just doesn’t get purchased. Hawke knows Bethany knows she’s getting these for Christmas, but he still doesn’t want to text her the questions and totally confirm it. And besides, he still has those brushes of Malcolm’s set aside upstairs at the house to make up for any lack in Bethany’s list. He figures it will even out, and if Bethany gets him the rest of the details for the other items, he’ll come back to get them. 

They leave the store with three bags and Hawke struggling with a couple canvases. He’s positive that Bethany did not have these on her at the time of her mugging and that she’s taking advantage of him with this list, but he’s OK with that. He doesn’t get the opportunity to completely spoil her very often.

After that it’s to the florist’s. Hawke feels a little guilty as they step foot inside. He’d promised Merrill he’d visit sooner rather than later after that incident with Wilmod at The Hanged Man, but he hadn’t yet made the time. Merrill’s shop, Sabrae’s Blooms, is even close by the bar, so he really has no excuse. By Merrill’s effusive greeting and bear hug, though, she’s just happy to see him.

“And you brought Fenris! Hello, Fenris! Are you buying flowers for Fenris, Hawke?” she asks in a not-quite whisper, prompting a choked laugh from Fenris and a stammering negative from Hawke. “Oh, I thought maybe… well, that’s alright. I’m sure it will happen eventually. Are you here for the Christmas flowers, then, Hawke?”

“Yeah, do you still have some in? I know it’s a little close to Christmas…”

“Seven days!” Merrill chirps, and Hawke groans. “I do, though, have some in, I mean. I just got a shipment of new flowers a couple days ago, but I’ve been holding some for you all month! I knew you would be in.” She beams at him, and somehow it doesn’t sound like an accusation the way she says it. He offers her a weak smile. Fenris places a subtle hand on his lower back, and that helps, so he tries again with the smile and gets a better result.

“I did sell the ones I held at the beginning of the month though,” Merrill tells him, waving them deeper into the store. Sabrae’s is densely packed with greenery, and the air is heavy and wet, humid and warm. It feels more like a greenhouse than a simple flower shop. Fenris shivers a little and peels his jacket off as they walk, shaking his arms out a little and smiling. Plants press toward them from all sides, and it’s a testament to Merrill’s skills as a florist that they are all healthy specimens. Each plant has its place, and though they look haphazard, Merrill knows exactly where everything is. She tried to explain her organizing system to Hawke once, but he didn’t get it and started spacing out a minute in. Zevran and Isabela basically know what’s going on, though, and he supposes that’s what matters more. Neither of them work in the store, but they’re here enough that they get mistaken for employees on occasion.

Merrill has but one other employee, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed kid named Tamlen who’s eager enough about helping out but seems to get in a lot of trouble at school, according to Merrill’s reports. Or, at least, that was the last Hawke knew about Tamlen a year ago. He hasn’t heard anything from Merrill about him since he’s been coming to Sunday nights again.

“If I’d kept them for you, they’d look rotten by now, so I always sold them just after a new shipment came in and picked you some new ones. I think this batch is the prettiest though, so maybe it’s good that you didn’t come earlier to pick them up. Are you visiting your mother on Christmas? I think it’s sweet that you do that, Hawke. I’m sure she loves having you around.”

Hawke swats at a fern that won’t leave his face alone, scowling when Fenris ducks under it with minimal fuss. They both have taken off their jackets at this point, Sabrae’s is sweltering compared to outside, but where Hawke appears to be trying to sweat his way into a puddle, Fenris looks...comfortable. Extremely comfortable, like he’s at home in this sort of humid heat.

The back of the shop has slightly fewer plants all over the place, but only because it needs to house the cash register and shelves for customer pick ups. Merrill sweeps two potted poinsettias onto the counter next to the register and starts ringing them up.

Hawke isn’t quite sure any more when he started giving his mom flowers for Christmas, but he knows it was shortly after Carver’s death. At some point, he just became incapable of figuring out what else to get his mother, and when flowers went over well one year, it became flowers every year. It’s tradition now for him to show up with plants for his mother and gifts for Bethany. Sometimes it feels like a cop out, but he’s never been able to think of anything else he could get Leandra, so flowers it is. Hell if he’ll show up empty-handed on Christmas.

“Thanks, Merrill,” he says, reaching for the flowers. “I really appreciate—”

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Merrill interrupts, spinning completely around before dashing off to the back room. “I’ll be right back!” 

Hawke stands, stunned, while Fenris takes a short loop of the store, stalking through the plants like some sort of jungle cat. He returns to the counter in time for Merrill to come out of the stockroom with several small, brightly colored flowers cupped in her hands. His eyebrows climb and he looks from Merrill to Hawke and back.

“I got these in, too! They’re from the tropics, way up north where it’s warm all the time. You make tea with them!”

Hawke blinks at the flowers. “OK?”

“I’m going to take some home to Isabela and Zevran, of course, but I haven’t put them out to sell yet because I don’t know how the tea tastes and I don’t really want to sell it without trying it out. Will you tell me if you like it?” Merrill looks up at Hawke with those big round eyes of hers and he can’t say no. He can’t say yes either, his throat feels like it’s closed up a little, but he nods. From behind him, Fenris coughs.

“Do you know how to make tea?” Merrill asks, dropping the flowers into a small bag.

“I do,” Fenris says, sounding slightly strangled. Hawke turns to look at him, and Fenris drops his eyes, clearing his throat.

“Are you OK, Fenris?” Merrill asks, her eyebrows drawing together in concern.

“Yes, I am—It is nothing,” and with that he turns and wanders off into the store, coughing.

“I think you should take him straight home,” Merrill tells Hawke as he pays for his flowers (“but not the little ones! Those are on the house today since I don’t know if they’re any good or not!”). “It sounds like he might be getting sick.”

“Yeah, it’s something, alright,” Hawke agrees and gathers up his bags. He finds Fenris in the tropical plants section, with his face shoved into a giant flower. Unfortunately, as he’s shifting the bags, trying to get his phone out to take a picture because it’s so goddamn cute, Fenris straightens and turns, smiling.

“These are from Seheron,” he says and gestures. “I...had not realized I missed it so much.”

“Do you want to get one?”

Fenris’s smile turns cryptic. “No, that is alright. I think I will be fine.” Hawke narrows his eyes. 

“And you’re not getting sick, are you?”

Fenris snorts a laugh. “No. It is extremely rare for me to get sick.”

Hawke regards Fenris for a moment before shrugging and moving past him toward the door. “Right, well, we have a few hours until cards tonight. I’d like to drop most of this off at home, if you don’t mind.”

The flowers and gifts for Bethany Hawke leaves in his spare bedroom, closing the door so the dog can’t accidentally chew on anything. The tea flowers Fenris insists on bringing back to his house with them, offering to make the tea before they have to leave for Sunday cards at Varric’s. Hawke shrugs his agreement but frowns at the weird smile Fenris gives him. Fenris keeps that weird look on his face until they get back to his house and he begins puttering around the kitchen, grabbing what he needs to make tea. Hawke leans against one of the counters, watching him. There isn’t a lot in this world he likes seeing more than Fenris preoccupied and comfortable in the kitchen. It’s become a singular delight for Hawke. Since the events of a few weeks ago, however, he knows there’s one image he likes best: Fenris bowed above him, eyes half closed, mouth open in breathless gasps, head tipped back to expose the whole line of his throat. Hawke grins and watches Fenris pouring hot water into two mugs. 

And then Fenris freezes, turning to Hawke with such an intense look in his eye that Hawke instinctively tries to back up a step though he can’t go anywhere. His heel runs into the underside of the cabinet and he winces. Fenris stalks toward him, halting a few paces away, his gaze now a molten heat. Hawke’s breath catches and he starts to harden.

“Hawke.” 

And damn if that voice doesn’t go straight through him, setting every nerve in his body singing.

“Fenris?”

“There is...something I must tell you.”

Shit. Those words aren’t usually followed by anything good, and Hawke can feel his initial excitement draining away. He nods and wishes the rest of his body would get the memo and calm down.

Fenris shifts his weight on his feet and sighs, his eyes darting away from Hawke’s before coming back to rest on his chin. “The flowers...they—Merrill may not know what they are, but I do. They come from Seheron. How she received a shipment, I do not know. The fact remains, in Seheron they...are a known aphrodisiac.” Hawke’s eyes widen, his lips curling up a bit on one side. Fenris looks down and to the side, fixing on the edge of the counter.

“I could not in good conscience serve it to you without you knowing.”

Hawke stretches out one arm, low so it passes Fenris’s field of vision, and wraps it around Fenris’s waist, gently pulling him in. Fenris allows it, curling his head under Hawke’s chin as Hawke’s other arm settles around his shoulders.

“I’ve wanted to jump you since we got back here,” Hawke rumbles, amusement plain in his voice. “No aphrodisiac required.” The hand around Fenris’s waist dips to rest on his ass, and Fenris huffs a laugh. “Though I think Merrill would be disappointed if we didn’t try the tea.”

Hawke pulls back and reaches for Fenris’s chin, gently drawing his face upward until their eyes meet. “I appreciate you telling me.”

Fenris smiles slightly and rises onto the balls of his feet to press a quick kiss to Hawke’s cheek before returning to tea preparation. After the flowers steep, Fenris adds a little sugar to each cup and hands one to Hawke.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, grabbing his own cup and examining it, “Merrill will be serving this to Isabela and Zevran. Without knowing what it is.”

Hawke roars with laughter and clinks his cup against Fenris’s in a ‘cheers’ gesture. “I’m sure they’ll have a grand old time. Think we should tell them?” Fenris chuckles.

“Perhaps. Though I doubt the knowledge will matter one way or the other in their decision-making process. Unless to tip it in favor of, I suppose.” He sips at the tea, looking at Hawke with hooded eyes over the rim of his mug.

“We can tell them tonight.” Hawke drinks from his own cup and finds the tea surprisingly drinkable, for tea. He’s never been fond of the stuff, too leafy, and though this tea has a certain leafyness to it, he can also swear he tastes exactly what the flowers look like. It’s a very...floral...leafyness.

Some of his thought process must show on his face, because Fenris raises an eyebrow at him and asks, “everything alright, Hawke?” 

In response, Hawke drains the rest of his tea and steps closer to Fenris, using one hand to nudge Fenris’s cup out of the way while the other slots into place under his jaw, angling his face up so Hawke can kiss him. Fenris hums and sets his cup down on the counter, grabbing the back of Hawke’s neck in what has become a very familiar, and, for Hawke, very welcome part of their dance. Hawke loves that Fenris’s strength matches his own, that despite Fenris’s smaller stature, he doesn’t have to worry about breaking him when things get heated. He loves the thought that sometimes crosses his mind, that Fenris could probably mop the floor with him in a fight (Hawke is secure enough with himself that he can recognize when someone else has skills he doesn’t), and yet he uses that strength and contained violence to pleasure Hawke. Hawke growls as heat floods through him at that and presses the kiss harder.

Fenris responds in kind, backing Hawke against the counter and leaning against him, using the coiled power of his body to keep Hawke trapped in place. A whimper escapes Hawke, and Fenris accepts it eagerly, devouring each sound from Hawke’s mouth. He pivots, using the hold he has on Hawke’s neck to move him too, and pushes Hawke out of the kitchen and toward the stairs. He breaks the kiss when Hawke begins climbing the stairs backward and follows, stalking up the stairs after Hawke, who smirks even as his breaths come faster because damn if Fenris doesn’t look dangerous and sexy like that.

“Fenris?” Hawke pants, still backing up as he gets to the top landing. “I don’t think the tea did anything.”

“Oh?” Fenris chuckles as Hawke trips over a crumpled up shirt and goes sprawling onto the bedroom floor. He crosses the space between them in a few long strides and straddles him, one hand on either side of Hawke’s head, knees firmly locked around Hawke’s hips. “And why do you say that?” He grinds down.

“Because...ooooh...I don’t feel any different.”

Fenris huffs in mock offense and leans down to nip at Hawke’s neck. “Let’s see if we can’t change that, shall we?”

Later that evening, as they’re all gathered around Varric’s table, in the middle of a hand of Wicked Grace, is when Hawke finally thinks the tea might have kicked in. All of a sudden he’s hyperaware of Fenris sitting next to him, the idle way Fenris’s bare feet are rubbing against his calf, the casual tapping of Fenris’s fingers against his cards on the table as he contemplates a bid. He turns to stare at Fenris just a little too quickly, and the satisfied smile on Fenris’s face says he knows exactly what he’s doing and how Hawke is feeling.

Hawke grumbles and leans across the table toward Isabela. “Incidentally,” he says, “try the flower tea.”

Isabela’s chuckle is full-throated and low, and Hawke pulls back a little in surprise. “Oh sweet thing, I already know.” She gives him a broad smile and drapes the one arm Hawke can see around Merrill’s shoulders. He’s not sure he wants to know where the other hand is and what it’s doing, but from the curl of Zevran’s lips, it’s not exactly hard to figure out.

Fenris clears his throat and slides his bet to the middle of the table. “I may have texted Isabela earlier,” he says.

“So it’s going to be a short night, Varric, because pretty soon here I’m gonna need these two to—”

“No one needs to know,” Aveline interrupts, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Spoilsport.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you for your comments and kudos! I live for them!


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Hawke family plus Fenris celebrates Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays! I really hope you all had a great Christmas, if you celebrate that, or a wonderful other holiday, whatever you happen to celebrate! My best wishes to you through the rest of the holiday season.
> 
> I wasn't sure I'd have this chapter done in time for Monday, but I did! So I thought I'd post it today as my gift to you.
> 
> Small content warning in this chapter for bad family relations, fwiw

H: **_He agreed to come. Don’t make it weird._**

B: **_How would I make it weird??_**

B: **_I won’t make it weird._**

B: **_You’ll make it weird._**

H: **_….I’ll see you at 2._**

Hawke sighs and rubs a hand down his face. It isn’t Bethany he’s really worried about; the most she’s likely to do is bounce around Fenris like an excited puppy and make heart eyes while planning their wedding and trying to get them under the mistletoe. No, he’s worried about his mother. Leandra will probably want to pry into Fenris’s past and make pointed remarks about how she won’t be getting grandchildren. He’s not sure if it would be better to ply her with drink or not, as she gets worse the more she has, but the more she has, the more likely she is to just go to sleep. The thought makes him feel like a terrible son, but since they are still fairly newly reconciled after their last great argument about Carver and whose fault his death was, Hawke isn’t inclined to be overly charitable.

He has half an hour until Fenris shows up to drive them over to the Hawke house and returns his attention to wrapping Fenris’s Christmas gift. It had arrived in the mail a couple days ago, but Hawke had left it unwrapped on the kitchen table until earlier this morning. He had liked seeing it as he walked past, though the closer it gets to the time he’ll actually present it to Fenris, the more nervous he gets. It had seemed like a good idea when he’d seen it online, but now he’s unsure. Gifts are too stressful without lists, he decides, taping a flap of wrapping paper down. Either next year he’ll get a list from Fenris or make the case for no gifts at all.

He pauses, a piece of tape on his finger, and stares at the small box. Next year? What the hell is he doing thinking that far ahead? Long years have taught him that the farther you look ahead, the more likely you are to get hurt. He’d anticipated his mother and father sitting proudly at his graduation as he simultaneously earned a business degree and a commission as a Second Lieutenant in the Ferelden Army. The ROTC program was really what kept him going through school and trying to graduate, and he’d been proud of what he accomplished there. All that expectation just to have it dashed when Malcolm died and he pulled out of school, out of the ROTC, to provide for his family. Then moving to Kirkwall and the Marches, and he’d dared to hope that they would be able to scrape together enough money to move out of Gamlen’s and buy a house only for Carver to die as well. For a short time, he’d even thought Leandra might be able to forgive him for not protecting Carver adequately, but that had been dashed too, over and over again through the years. It’s only fair, he supposes: he hasn’t forgiven himself either.

It’s only when a knock sounds at the door that Hawke rouses from his self-recriminating stupor. He hurriedly places the piece of tape still hanging out on his finger, checks that no pieces of the box are visible through the paper, and goes to open the door. Fenris’s smile fades to concern as he takes in Hawke’s expression, still pinched and drawn. “Are you—”

“Fine. Basically.” 

One of Fenris’s dark eyebrows raises, but he doesn’t say anything further as he closes the door behind himself. Instead, he hoists a bottle of wine. Hawke has to physically restrain himself from uncorking it immediately and drinking straight from the bottle. Fenris’s eyes narrow at the jerk Hawke’s body does, and he stares pointedly though he doesn’t pry. Technically. Staring isn’t prying, though it often accomplishes the same thing. Hawke attempts to distract Fenris by reaching out to ruffle his hair, but he can tell that Fenris, in his exaggerated scowl, is only playing along for Hawke’s benefit. It helps, though, and he takes a step back.

“Aggregio?”

“Yes, I convinced Xenon to allow me to bring a bottle. If that’s OK?”

“Well, it’s a sure bet to win over the Hawke women,” he deflects. Bethany has probably already purchased some sort of wine for dinner, it’s just what she does, and Hawke isn’t thrilled about the idea of having even more wine in the house, but he supposes that between the three of them, he, Fenris, and Bethany can probably polish off most of that bottle before Leandra gets to it.

Fenris frowns and steps into the bubble of space Hawke had created around himself. He grabs Hawke’s neck, pausing for a moment to search Hawke’s eyes for any sign that it might be unwelcome before he pulls him in for a kiss. Hawke relaxes into the kiss, a short, desperate sound escaping him. Too soon, Fenris breaks away, leaning his forehead against Hawke’s, rubbing his thumb into the side of Hawke’s neck.

“We do not have to go,” he says, softly, as if there were anyone around to eavesdrop.

Hawke snorts, sagging just a little. “You don’t, maybe.”

Fenris growls and he looks so angry for a second that Hawke nearly jerks away. “Family should be good, not…” he waves a hand, encompassing his failed Thanksgiving with his sister and Hawke’s own reticence with one eloquent gesture. Hawke shrugs and Fenris growls again.

“Families are like people,” Hawke says. “Some are good and make you wish you had what they do; some are shitty and make you glad for what you’ve got. Most just...are.”

Fenris snorts. “So I got shitty. What is yours?”

“A mutt. Bethany’s good. Mother...is.”

A few moments pass as Fenris contemplates this, his fingers still moving on Hawke’s neck. “Then we will stay no more than a few hours,” he says, and Hawke sighs in relief, releasing tension at the finality in Fenris’s words. It’s _his_ family, he should be the one reassuring Fenris that it will be OK, and yet he finds he is content to be looked out for in this. He offers Fenris a small smile and pulls away, reaching up with a hand to twine his fingers with Fenris’s.

“I, uh, I got you something, but I’d rather give it to you later, when we’re alone.”

Fenris quirks one side of his mouth up and raises one eyebrow, and somehow that particular expression has never quite seemed so lewd as it does now. 

“You’re impossible,” Hawke complains, but he laughs anyway. 

Fenris digs with his free hand in his coat pocket, producing another small, wrapped box that he sets on top of Hawke’s on the table. He gives Hawke a small, bashful smile and turns back toward the door, lightly dragging him along.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Bethany opens the door, beaming first at Fenris and then at Hawke, who holds a bag with the poinsettias and Bethany’s gifts. Fenris looks a little to the right of her shoulder and hands her the wine, and Bethany gapes at the bottle.

“This...this is...where did you get this?” she says, her planned greeting completely forgotten.

Fenris coughs and shuffles one foot. “I have a friend.” His brows furrow a second after he speaks, and he frowns. “That is...uh…”

Hawke places a gentle hand on Fenris’s shoulder and squeezes. “He knows a guy, Beth. Don’t make it weird. Maybe we’ll introduce you sometime if you behave.” Fenris flashes him a grateful look. Bethany harrumphs and carries the wine into the kitchen like she’s holding something precious. And Hawke supposes she is, considering Aggregio isn’t available in Kirkwall, or most of the Marches for that matter.

“How did you convince Xenon to give you a bottle, anyway?” Hawke asks as Fenris takes off his shoes and lines them up by the front door. Fenris rolls his shoulder in a shrug, watching the doorway Bethany had disappeared through.

“I took him on as a personal client.” At Hawke’s confused face, Fenris sighs. “I do for him the same as I do for any other client at work: I scour the internet of unflattering information. Except, for Xenon, I do my best to get rid of _any_ information regarding the Black Emporium.”

“What? Why? Wouldn’t a restaurant _want_ reviews? Isn't that good for business?”

Fenris shrugs again. “He seems to do fine as invite only.” That’s certainly true enough, and it’s a weird enough place that being excised from the internet seems almost a normal thing for Xenon to request, now that he thinks about it. 

Hawke reaches for Fenris’s hand and holds it tight for a moment, staring solemnly into wide, green eyes. Finally he sighs, presses his lips together, and jerks his head toward the door that will take them farther into the house. Fenris gestures with his free hand, gripping onto Hawke with the other when he tries to untangle their fingers. Hawke raises an eyebrow in response but leads the way. 

Bethany is in the kitchen, the bottle of Aggregio sitting in a decanter on the counter next to her. She spies their twined hands and claps delightedly. The expression on her face is so utterly _happy_ that Hawke can’t quite muster a scowl as he hands the bag of stuff off to Bethany to deal with. She raises an eyebrow at him, but places the flowers out on the kitchen island and skips to put her presents under the tree in the living room.

Fenris presses close to Hawke’s side but his eyes are everywhere, taking in the Hawke manor. The kitchen is spacious and well crafted, all marble and dark cabinetry and shining steel appliances, and the island with its chairs on one side reminds Fenris of Hawke’s own kitchen. The living room abuts gracefully, the tile of the kitchen making way for plush carpets and squishy looking armchairs and couches arrayed around the fireplace and TV. At the end of the kitchen, a doorway leads to what looks like a formal dining room. A hallway between the living room and kitchen leads off into the rest of the first floor, while a staircase curls around the living room, heading upstairs. 

Many of the paintings on the walls look like what he’s seen at Hawke’s house, and he wonders if Hawke and his mother collect the same artist. The color scheme of the place is muted but tasteful, and overall, the house gives off an air of nobility. Like the inhabitants would be more at home in a mansion. He can’t see Bethany comfortable in a larger house, though, from the little he’s seen of her and what Hawke has mentioned in passing about his sister. Leandra, however, when she descends the stairs, he can. She reminds him strongly of some of the senators Dan used to invite over frequently and recoils slightly. Hawke’s hand tightens on his, and he’s grateful for that. A little concerned, then, when he feels one side of Hawke’s body tense up even as he smiles at his mother.

The way Leandra pauses when she reaches the bottom of the stairs only serves to strengthen the familiarity Fenris feels. It is a gesture of authority, that pause, a subtle reminder to those gathered of who has the power here. It makes his skin crawl. Dan always descended staircases to greet people; it served to unbalance the conversation before it even started. That Hawke’s mother would do the same… He hadn’t expected this. He nearly bolts for the door. Without Hawke’s hand on his, he likely would have. As it is, Hawke brushes a thumb across the back of his hand and turns, very deliberately, Fenris thinks, away from his mother and toward Fenris.

“What’s wrong?” His voice is pitched low, and Fenris appreciates the illusion of privacy as Leandra draws closer, her eyes narrowed.

“She… your mother reminds me of Dan.” 

Hawke’s eyes grow wide and then, inexplicably, he begins laughing, doubling over, tears welling in the corners of his eyes. He wipes at them with his other hand, giggling helplessly. “Oh shit, that’s… that’s so _not_ funny, ahaha!!” Fenris trades a look with Bethany over Hawke’s back, and she shrugs, looking nearly as confused as Fenris feels.

Hawke finally straightens, dabs at his eyes with the hem of his henley, and breathes deep, trying to stifle his laughter. He snorts when he sees his mother and nearly succumbs again. “Oh fuck,” he gasps, and Leandra fixes him with a disappointed stare. Fenris suddenly _needs_ to be drinking, and he looks over to Bethany, trying to indicate with his eyes what he wants. Bright girl that she is, she nods and pours from the decanter into a waiting glass, filling it higher than is generally accepted practice. Fenris loves her for it. She brings it to him and he dips his head in acknowledgment.

“You’re welcome,” she whispers, smiling, as he drinks. She fills her own glass and a third, nearly depleting the decanter. “If you stop making that ridiculous sound, brother, you can have some of the wine Fenris brought.” 

Hawke manages to bring himself under control and reaches for the glass. Bethany eyes him suspiciously before she hands it over. From the edge of the kitchen, Leandra clears her throat, looking from face to face. Her gaze lingers on Fenris, and he has the ridiculous thought that he should have hidden his tattoos before he grits his teeth and lifts his chin, just slightly. Leandra draws back almost imperceptibly and looks back at Hawke.

“This is him, then?”

Fenris is glad he hadn’t been drinking when she spoke. He’d likely have choked. He had allowed himself to hope that bearing was the only similarity between Leandra and Dan. More fool, him.

“Actually, this is Fenris.” The ice in Hawke’s voice warms Fenris’s heart just a little. The fact remains that Leandra Hawke, his Hawke’s mother, is speaking _about_ him to someone else, and that chills him. It is all too familiar. The wine shakes in the glass he holds, and he presses it against his shoulder to still it. 

“It wouldn’t kill you to show a little respect, mother.”

Bethany, Fenris is discovering, should have been sainted a long time ago. She appears next to him, shooting him an apologetic glance for startling him before pointing to the hallway and beckoning. Fenris casts one look at Hawke, sees the grim set of his face, and follows Bethany. She opens the door to a room at the end of the hall and gestures inside. Fenris stops on the threshold and waits for her to enter first but ends up flinching into the room first as Leandra’s voice follows them down the hallway: “Garrett Malcolm Hawke! How _dare_ you!”

The door closes on Hawke’s response, and Bethany sags against it, grimacing a smile at Fenris. “Merry Christmas?”

Fenris attempts a smile but can’t manage one, so he drinks instead. They’re in a bedroom, one that looks remarkably unused. A guest room, perhaps? A dresser stands on one wall, a large mirror hanging above it. Directly opposite the dresser is a desk, completely clear of anything Fenris is used to seeing on desks; he only knows what it is through its shape and the chair before it. The closet is set into the wall they entered through, mirrored doors closed. In front of him is the bed, large and comfortable looking, and Fenris sinks onto it, pulling his legs up and wrapping his free arm around them. He watches Bethany’s feet move across the floor and settle into the office chair at the desk.

The door blocks sound surprisingly well.

They sit in silence for a while, until Fenris’s glass is nearly empty. He contemplates it sourly, swirling the remaining wine. He cannot exit the room, not without knowing the state of affairs in the kitchen, and he cannot, in good conscience, ask Bethany to brave it for him. She probably would, but though she has likely been witness to the...apparently volatile relations between Hawke and his mother, he would not force her back into that environment. Bad enough that it happens in the first place.

“I… thank you,” he says instead, raising his eyes to hers. She smiles at him, and he is struck by how differently she smiles than her brother. Bethany’s smiles are large and bright, bringing the sun on a cloudy day. Hawke smiles like his face would rather be scowling, even at his most delighted. His smiles are fleeting things, treasured for their rarity. Though Bethany smiles like it’s something she does more often than not, it does not feel cheapened for that knowledge. She somehow has a way of making Fenris feel like he’s the first person she’s smiled at like that. _How does someone like this make it through the world?_ he wonders. She would not survive Tevinter.

“I thought you might prefer Garrett’s room to...that.” 

“This is...Hawke’s room?”

“Well,” Bethany says, gesturing with her wine glass. “It would have been if he’d moved in with us instead of getting his own place. Mostly he just stays here if he drinks too much to go home.” She pats the edge of the desk, frowning slightly. It’s an expression that doesn’t look at home on her face, though she furrows her eyebrows just like Hawke.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that. For what it’s worth, though, I’ve never heard Garrett yell quite like that before. He must really like you.” Bethany catches the stricken look on Fenris’s face and wrinkles her nose. “Sorry, that was in poor taste. Fact stands, though.”

Fenris considers this, staring into his glass. On the one hand, it is nice to hear that Hawke has never acted like this before. He’s still yelling at his mother, though, which is… He’s not quite sure what, considering Leandra creeps him out. On the other hand, he has spent long years of his life convincing himself and others that he can fight his own battles, especially where Dan is concerned. To be reduced to hiding behind his lover and running from the room at the first chance makes him think he might not be as strong as he thought, and that is a train of thought he does not want to ride. So instead he says:

“We...Hawke...brought you gifts. Though,” he jerks his chin at the closed door, “they reside in the warzone.”

Bethany snorts and has to raise a hand to her mouth to keep her sip of wine in her mouth. “Garrett said you were funny,” she says, grinning. Fenris shrugs modestly and finishes off his wine. Bethany eyes his glass then her own and rises.

“I’ll scout the coast, see if hostilities have abated.”

Fenris salutes her. “Good luck and godspeed.”

Bethany snickers, grabs Fenris’s glass from him, and slips out of the room, making sure to close the door behind her. Fenris isn’t sure if this counts as Bethany “sistering” him, as Hawke had indicated she’d like to do, but he likes it nonetheless. He uncurls, settling his feet on the floor, and folds his hands in front of his knees. It is peaceful in this room that should be Hawke’s.

The door opens again, but Hawke’s feet stride in instead of Bethany’s. He sits down heavily on the bed next to Fenris and butts his forehead into Fenris’s shoulder. “Mother’s gone upstairs,” he says, in a tone that sounds both aggrieved and relieved at this development. 

“What happened?” Fenris asks, unlacing his hands to place one on Hawke’s knee. Hawke covers it with one of his own. 

“The usual.” The casual way Hawke dismisses it unnerves Fenris for reasons he can't articulate, so he lets his frustration out in a low growl. Hawke raises his head to look at him, eyebrows furrowed, just like Bethany's. “Family?” he asks.

Fenris huffs and nods; Hawke just shrugs. 

“Like I said, mother _is_. She disapproves of my seeing men and blames me for Carver, but she's still my mother.” He sighs and digs his face into the palm of his hand. “Barely.” This last is said in a voice so low and muffled that Fenris isn't sure if he was meant to hear it or not. He pretends he didn't.

Bethany appears in the doorway, holding two full glasses of wine, and Fenris pulls Hawke up so he can get his refill. The three of them troop back to the living room, though each of them in turn casts a glance up the stairs. Fenris curls up on a corner of the couch and lets Hawke grab Bethany’s gifts from under the tree and present them to her. She rips the paper off with all the enthusiasm of a toddler, and Fenris can’t help but smile a little at that. Her excitement is contagious, and he can see Hawke grinning too, from where he sits on the floor at Bethany’s feet. She extols the virtues of the different brushes Hawke got her, waxing poetic about brushstrokes blending. Fenris nods at all the right points, and Bethany delights in such an attentive audience. 

Hawke excuses himself partway through Bethany’s explanation of how she achieved a certain distressed look in one of her paintings (which is how Fenris learns that _Bethany_ is the painter that Hawke and Leandra both collect, because she’s describing a painting he’s admired in Hawke’s house before) and tiptoes upstairs. Bethany and Fenris watch him go and wait quietly until he returns to the top of the stairs. He scowls at them, offended that they would even consider that _he_ would go upstairs to start shit with his mother. He’s holding one hand behind his back, though, which intrigues Fenris immediately. It takes Bethany another few moments to notice and then she’s badgering him to show what it is he has.

When he reveals the ratty old brushes, Fenris is confused, but Bethany raises a hand to her mouth and starts crying. Actual tears pooling in her eyelids and splashing down her cheeks. She crumples off the couch, and Hawke wraps his arms around her, rocking her back and forth until her weeping subsides. Fenris averts his eyes, loathe to intrude on such a moment.

They spend some more time with Bethany, sitting on the couch or the floor, chatting idly before Hawke looks at his phone and motions to Fenris. Bethany pouts as they ready themselves to leave but brightens when Fenris promises to bring her another bottle of Aggregio before too long if he can help it. She hugs Hawke goodbye first, holding him tightly and sniffling into his shoulder. Fenris she doesn’t hug immediately. Instead she just opens her arms and shrugs at him, effectively communicating that it’s completely up to him whether or not he takes her up on it. He doesn’t, but raises one hand to clasp one of hers. He holds on longer than a handshake should last, squeezing gently, doing his best to convey his thanks for everything she did for him that afternoon. Bethany smiles, and he knows she understands enough.

Hawke drags himself through his front door when they get back and collapses face-first on the couch, groaning mightily. Fenris raises an eyebrow as he takes his coat off and hangs it on one of the kitchen chairs. He gingerly picks up the gifts on the table, setting them down on the coffee table in front of the couch. Hawke perks up at the sound, flopping his head to the side so he can see. He smiles, and it’s one of the small ones that Fenris likes best because he knows Hawke thinks he’s being subtle with it, but the man can’t regulate his expressions _that_ well.

Fenris shoves at Hawke until he moves and they can sit side by side on the couch, Fenris with his legs curled under him, Hawke with one leg sprawled out by the coffee table and one foot tucked up. Fenris rocks forward to grab the boxes and holds them both in his lap for a minute, staring down at them. Hawke lays his hand on Fenris's forearm and squeezes lightly, giving Fenris a hopeful look when he turns from the boxes to face him.

“I didn't know what to get you,” Hawke says, freeing his box from Fenris’s lap and presenting it to him. “I hope it’s OK.” 

Fenris wants to say that it’s more than OK, that Hawke didn’t have to get him anything, but the words won’t come. He takes the package mutely, turning it over in his hands. He’s not unused to gifts, Dan would give them not infrequently, but Fenris wouldn’t always know what a gift was for, if it was for a future or past deed, confirmation that he had done well or bribery to perform to expectation. And certainly he had never _exchanged_ gifts with Dan; that hadn’t been part of their relationship. He’s unsure what the protocol is for presenting his gift afterward, but he knows this part of it well enough and slides a finger delicately into the paper, pulling Hawke’s wrap job apart at the seams. 

The box inside the paper is unadorned except for a shipping label with Hawke’s name and address. Hawke hands over his knife, and Fenris cuts the tape holding the top flaps together. Within the box, between several pieces of tissue paper is a red leather cuff. Fenris traces his fingers along it inside the box first, just admiring the workmanship. It’s supple leather and soft, buckled along one side with an antique brass fixture. Hawke looks...shy when Fenris glances up at him, twisting his fingers against his thigh. Fenris pulls the cuff out of its box and offers it to Hawke, who takes it, confused. Fenris unclasps the cuff he wears on his right wrist, dropping it into the box and holding his bare wrist out to Hawke. 

Another small smile from Hawke, and he slips the cuff around Fenris’s wrist, buckling it securely. He ducks his head and presses a kiss to the leather, then another to the back of Fenris’s hand.

“D—”

“Yes,” Fenris breathes. “I like it.” Gifts from Dan had always been large or flashy and showy, designed not to simply be worn or displayed but to draw people’s attention to Fenris and, by extension, Dan. Nothing had been simply for _him_ as this is. It nearly brings him to tears, so he reaches for Hawke with his left hand and kisses him instead. Hawke chuckles into the kiss, wrapping both of his hands around Fenris’s right.

“I’m glad,” Hawke says when they break apart, his hands pressing lightly against Fenris’s before releasing it. 

Fenris looks down at the gift lying in his lap, pressing his lips together. It isn’t as though he can refuse Hawke this, now that he’d expecting it. Fenris would not be so cruel. But… He toys with the box, turning it over and over in his palm. It seems an inadvisable gift now, but he hadn’t known before… He sighs, grips the box, and thrusts it toward Hawke before he can change his mind. 

Hawke, it turns out, is a somewhat enthusiastic ripper of paper, like his sister. In seconds it lies on the floor, and he’s pulling the top of the box off. He grabs the chain of the necklace within about halfway down its length, bringing it out of the box to rest the pendant against his wrist. His eyebrows furrow as he studies it for a moment, then he turns to Fenris.

“I’ve never seen this design before. What is it?”

Fenris closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath. “It is the Amell crest.” On the little piece of burnished metal Hawke holds, no larger than the length of the tip of Hawke’s thumb to the first knuckle, run red lines, crossing and recrossing each other to form a stylized image of two birds of some kind (griffons or phoenixes or hawks, Fenris isn’t sure and couldn’t actually find out) facing each other, claws outstretched and touching, tails twining. 

He opens his eyes to see Hawke staring at the pendant, one finger resting against the base of it almost reverentially. 

“I didn’t know we had a crest,” Hawke whispers.

“The Amells were a noble family in Kirkwall back when that sort of thing was still recognized,” Fenris says. “I...thought you might like a piece of your family’s history.” He twists his hands together and considers his thumbs carefully. “After today, I...wasn’t sure.” Amell is Leandra’s maiden name, after all, something he’d discovered as he trolled through extensive records online, searching for anything to connect Hawke to his past. But though she is Hawke’s mother, the enmity between them makes him unsure the gift will be well received.

Fenris is completely unprepared for the force of the hug Hawke wraps him in. “It’s perfect,” Hawke mumbles into the top of Fenris’s head, pulling him as close as he can. Fenris untangles his hands and returns the embrace, nestling into Hawke’s chest.

“I’m glad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments! They mean so much to me!
> 
> If you're on tumblr, I'm there by the same name if you wanna come join :)


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a New Years' Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone. I hope you all made it through safely to 2017. I'm glad you're here. We're gonna be OK. 
> 
> For this chapter, I have a music rec: "Laughter Lines" by Bastille. I figure, I have this whole playlist of tracks for this fic, might as well rec some of them with chapters occasionally.
> 
> Enjoy the cameos at the party! I had fun with it.

Hawke doesn’t take the Amell crest off once he puts it on, with one exception: Fenris insists that he not wear it to bed because he doesn’t want Hawke to be accidentally strangled overnight. Hawke doesn’t think that will happen, but he places it gently on his nightstand at bedtime anyway. It goes straight onto his neck when he wakes up; he even showers with it on, drying it carefully when he gets out. The chain is just long enough that the crest pendant rests an inch below the hollow of his throat, hidden but for the chain when he pulls a shirt on. 

Isabela mocks him mercilessly about his new accessory when he refuses to show her what it is on Tuesday. She does give him a genuine smile when he admits it’s from Fenris, though.

Fenris, for his part, always wears the red cuff on his right wrist. The one on the left cycles, changing on his whims and what he’s wearing. But always red on the right. It doesn’t always show beneath his shirt sleeves, but he knows it’s there and that’s what matters in the end. Especially when the first thing Hawke does when he sees him is take his right hand and kiss his wrist.

Bethany texts Hawke an obscenely long string of emojis when he tells her about the gift exchange. Fenris just smiles to himself when Hawke shows him the text.

Fenris is halfway through his glass of wine on Wednesday when Varric walks into The Hanged Man, heading for the back office. He raises a hand in greeting, and Varric waves back, stopping by the corner of the bar that has unofficially become _their_ corner, Fenris and Hawke’s, to impart some Very Important News:

“New Years’ Party Sunday!”

Fenris looks at Hawke, looks back to Varric, and asks, “Is this party any different from regular Sundays?”

“Different from regular Sundays?” Varric scoffs. “My good man, it is _completely different._ ”

Fenris looks unconvinced and raises an eyebrow at Hawke. “Is it any different?”

“Kinda?” Hawke shrugs. “Usually more people, some things usually explode, and a lot of people stay the night upstairs ‘cause they’re trashed.”

“You have no flair, Hawke!” Varric complains. “There’s an expanded guest list, more varieties of snacks, some fireworks, both literal and metaphorical, and naturally, a larger selection of alcoholic beverages!”

“What he said.” Hawke jerks a thumb at Varric, who sighs and looks put upon.

“It’s delicious, is what it is,” Isabela says, leaning across the bar. “New Years’ is where Zevran and I met Merrill. Thanks again, Varric.”

Varric performs a flourishing bow. “But of course, Rivaini! Anything for you.” He straightens and continues toward the office, calling over his shoulder, “Sunday! 8:00 pm!”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“Shouldn’t this have happened yesterday?” Fenris asks, as he and Hawke climb the stairs to Varric’s apartment.

“Yesterday wasn’t Sunday.”

Fenris scowls. “Yesterday was at least New Years’ Eve, which is the usual day for such festivities.”

Hawke shrugs, unconcerned, and knocks at the door once before simply opening it. “Varric was never much one for tradition.”

“Except for Sundays.”

“Except for Sundays.”

Varric’s promise of an “expanded guest list” was no lie, and Fenris finds there are more people in the apartment by 8:30 than he is strictly comfortable with. Hawke gets them drinks and makes sure they can stand against a wall so there are fewer angles to approach them at, and that helps. It isn’t perfect, but it will have to do.

Varric introduces Fenris to a few people Hawke has already met: his business partner, Corff; a huge man who looks kind of like Sten and gives his profession as “a freelancer” and calls himself Bull; a “Sister Leliana” who doesn’t look at all like any of the church sisters Fenris has ever seen; and Jethann, a small, wiry man who makes inappropriate eyes and pointed remarks at Hawke. Fenris glares at him until he walks away, muttering. Corff only says a gruff hello and scampers off to the kitchen for a drink. Leliana makes polite conversation for a few minutes but excuses herself to go talk to Isabela and Zevran when she sees them. It appears, from the enthusiasm of Zevran’s greeting, that they know each other well. Bull stays around the longest, lounging near them in silence in such a way that Fenris is content to let him remain there. He doesn’t, beckoning a shorter, dark-haired man over to make introductions, his broad hand resting fondly on the man’s shoulder. And that would all be fine, except:

“Krem?” Fenris asks, his eyes narrowing. “Short for…”

“Cremisius,” the man answers, staring straight back at Fenris. “Do we have a problem?”

Hawke places one hand on the small of Fenris’s back in silent question. Fenris growls slightly.

“It appears I cannot escape Tevinter no matter where I go.”

Krem scoffs. “Apparently neither can I.”

Fenris tilts his head, and he and Krem regard each other for a long moment. Finally Fenris sticks out his fist. Krem knocks the top of Fenris’s fist with his own, nods once, and gestures to Bull. Unfazed, the big man nods politely to Fenris and Hawke and leads Krem toward the drinks.

“What was that?” Hawke asks when they’ve gone.

“We have an understanding.” 

“I don’t,” Hawke grumbles, but he doesn’t press further.

The size of the group crammed in Varric’s apartment makes it impossible to play a single game of Wicked Grace, so instead there are several floating games around the apartment. People drift between games, going wherever they think their luck will hit best, abandoning games after a few hands to try again elsewhere. Zevran and Isabela have taken to this gleefully, splitting up to hit different games, then coming together to pull one big grift before disappearing again. It is...rather skillful, actually, and the more people drink, the less they remember that Isabela just fleeced them out of their money not half an hour ago and let her play with them again.

Fenris and Hawke join in on a game or two, Fenris walking away with most of their earnings, though Hawke manages a respectable showing in one round. They drink, and drink, and Hawke smiles and laughs like he hasn’t in years.

“Tell me, Bull,” Hawke says, when they’ve managed to get a wall with Bull and Krem again, “what does ‘freelancer’ mean?”

Bull chuckles, and it’s a sound Fenris can practically feel vibrating the wall. “Mostly I pick up whatever work sounds interesting. Bit of this and that.”

“That’s...remarkably untelling.”

“That’s the idea.” And Bull winks, which still manages to come off as a wink, given that half of Bull’s face is twisted up in a scar that fully closes one eye. 

“Oh come on,” Hawke pouts. “Tell me anything!”

“One time we got paid in rice,” Krem drawls. The gaping look on Hawke’s face is worth it, and Fenris laughs while Krem just twists one corner of his mouth up slightly.

“Why you gotta be like that, Krem? You weren’t supposed to tell anyone.” Bull doesn’t sound put out though, more like this sort of thing happens all the time.

“Gotta take you down a peg somehow, chief. Get too big for your shirt, otherwise.”

Hawke howls with laughter, grasping Fenris’s shoulder to avoid falling to the floor. “It’s funny cause he’s already big,” Hawke wheezes, which makes Bull laugh and Krem snort. Fenris excuses himself to get more drinks, and when he looks back from the kitchen a few moments later, Hawke is speaking with the large, expansive gestures that mean he’s in the middle of telling a “one time I kicked the crap out of this guy” story. He loves those stories. Fenris shakes his head fondly. By the time he has the drinks, Bull appears to be telling his own “kicked the crap” story, Krem beside him, shaking his head fondly.

The night proceeds apace, Bull and Krem disappearing occasionally and other people joining them. Aveline drops by for a while, talking with Hawke about work at the station and pointedly _not_ talking about Donnic or his work with the Templars. Merrill appears to talk about the flower shop and very nearly wanders into the territory of tea-scapades and what happened after she got Isabela and Zevran home two weeks ago before Hawke sets her back on a different path. He doesn’t really need to know that. Isabela comes over after that to tell them what happened two weeks ago, and Hawke bodily removes her from their section of wall while Isabela laughs merrily.

Jethann approaches Hawke again while Fenris is engaged in conversation with Krem and Bull and doesn’t notice until the flute of his giggle carries over. Fenris turns to find Jethann leaning against the wall, leaning _toward_ Hawke, his eyebrows wiggling lecherously. He scowls and presses himself against Hawke’s side. Hawke immediately turns happy eyes on Fenris, wrapping both arms around him and kissing his forehead. Fenris glares at Jethann, and he walks off, muttering.

“I do not like him,” Fenris says, watching Jethann go.

“Oh, I don’t know, he’s alright. I mean,” Hawke stammers, seeing the thunder in Fenris’s face, “if you like that sort of thing. Which I don’t. I have everything I could ever want right here.” And he snuggles his nose into Fenris’s cheek until Fenris laughs and smacks him gently.

When midnight hits, Fenris looks around the room, but everyone is still in their clusters, talking and drinking and laughing. No one is kissing. He supposes that perhaps they all got that out of their system _yesterday_ , when it was _actually_ New Years’ Eve, and he frowns. Hawke had been working yesterday, per his usual Saturdays, and Fenris had visited The Hanged Man, per his usual, though he’d vacated his bar space before midnight. Hawke had grimaced, telling him that midnight could get a little dicey, what with all the drunk people trying to kiss whoever’s closest, regardless of whether or not that person walked in with them or not. They’d spent the night apart, Hawke texting that he was too exhausted to make it to Hightown, that Varric was going to take him home. Midnight must have been something.

Still frowning, Fenris grabs Hawke’s hand, waits a beat for the man’s attention to turn to him, then drags him forward, rising onto his tiptoes to kiss him. He wraps a hand around Hawke’s neck, laying claim to him the only way he knows how with this group of people. He keeps kissing him, fingers digging into Hawke’s neck because Hawke _loves it_ , growls low in his throat because of it. With his tongue, Fenris licks Hawke’s mouth open underneath his lips, darts inside to ravish him, to remind him and everyone that Hawke is _his_ , damn it, and he is not giving him up.

Off to the side he hears a wolf whistle and breaks off to glare daggers at the perpetrator. Isabela just grins and leers at him. “Don’t stop on my account,” she says, gesturing with one hand. With the other, she snags Merrill’s waist and draws her closer, Zevran already pressed against her other side, nipping at her neck. Isabela bends to kiss Merrill, and Fenris turns back to Hawke, lips quirked up to pick up where he left off.

“Get a room!” someone yells. It sounds like Jethann, and Fenris raises a middle finger in their general direction.

“We’re in one!” he shouts back. Hawke snickers against him, and really, that makes the whole night worth it.

Later on, some things do, indeed, explode, though thankfully no one is too close to the oven when it happens. 

“What the hell did you put in here?” Varric asks, looking like he can’t decide if he should be amused or annoyed.

“A pizza?” The crowd that’s gathered around the oven, over their initial startle, just looks drunkenly confused. “How could a pizza do that?”

“We’ll probably never know,” Varric says, and hands out sparklers, shooing people out of the apartment to go “create property damage elsewhere.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“Wynne? What’s wrong?”

Fenris’s soft voice pulls Hawke from his sleep, and he rolls over in the bed, seeking with one hand for Fenris’s body. The other side of the bed is empty. Hawke’s head is still muzzy from drinking, so he doesn’t look around for Fenris, just pricks up his ears. Fenris chuckles, short and mirthless.

“I don’t believe you. Aren’t you always telling _me_ to be honest?”

Hawke can hear Fenris begin to pace.

“Who is this person? Why would I want to help him?”

A hiss of breath.

“That life is not mine anymore. What could he possibly want?”

Fenris sighs.

“Fine. I will speak with him. Tell him that I promise nothing.”

A long pause and Hawke can hear Fenris tapping lightly at the railing to the stairs. 

“What about him?” Fenris’s voice is sharp. “I left him far behind. Wynne assured me he could not retaliate. My case worker assured me he could not follow.”

A shorter pause.

“You are telling me they lied? That they hoped, but were not sure, and said what they did to placate me?”

An even shorter pause.

“Then what?!” Explosive words, shattering out of Fenris’s mouth. “What is it like?”

The tapping intensifies. 

“Why should I believe you?”

The tapping stops.

“And all of it leaves with you, I assume?”

Fenris sighs, taps several times.

“Naturally. Assuming I find it persuasive, what will you require of me?”

The sound of a fist hitting the bannister, but gently. Fenris is trying not to wake Hawke.

“You will tell me, or I will hang up and you will never speak to me again.”

A pause.

“She does know me quite well by now. Now tell me.”

No sounds come from the landing for a little while, and Hawke has to stop breathing to listen for the slight sounds of Fenris’s.

“That’s impossible.” Fenris sounds weak. “They won’t let him in the city-state.”

Another long pause. Hawke rolls over and cracks an eye open to see Fenris standing, one hand in a death grip on the railing. He frowns but has to close his eye as the world swims.

“You still have yet to tell me what you want from me.”

The creak of Fenris’s hand closing harder on the railing.

“Do you even know what he—” Fenris snarls. “I want nothing to do with him. I will not see him.”

A scuff as Fenris releases the railing to begin pacing again.

“...Explain.”

A pause, longer than any before, then:

Fenris growls.

He cuts off, listening again to whoever is on the other end of the line, then:

Fenris scoffs, though the sound has little feeling behind it. “More likely, he means to woo me first and resort to that only if it does not work. Which it will not.”

More pacing, accompanied by occasional thumps on the bannister.

“And you could take advantage of that. Yes, it makes sense.”

A pause, then two taps on the railing.

“Save your speech. I will think about it. Now hang up or put Wynne back on.”

A thump as Fenris sits down at the top of the stairs.

“I know. It does not feel like it, however.”

A sigh, and Fenris drags a hand down his face.

“Yes. Thank you.”

A short pause.

“It is unlikely, but I will try.”

Another short pause.

“Yes, I will see you then.”

Fenris remains seated on the stairs, head in his hands, after he hangs up the phone. Hawke peeks out at him from the bed but the heavy pull of liquor and exhaustion drags him under again and he sleeps. In his dreams, Fenris wanders around his house, talking to people who are not there. It feels important, what he speaks to them about, but Hawke can’t recall any of it when he wakes again.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Fenris still isn’t beside him in the morning. Hawke jerks upright and has his feet on the floor, reaching for his crest, when he hears clattering from downstairs and relaxes. A moment later his nose picks up the smell of something cooking, and...is that bacon? That’s something he knows for sure he didn’t have in his refrigerator, which means he was passed out so hard he didn’t notice Fenris getting up and _going shopping._ He fastens the necklace around his throat and groans into one hand before pushing himself off the bed. He needs water. The ache in his head isn’t threatening to kill him, but the world feels fuzzy around the edges, as if nothing is quite real.

He leans heavily on the bannister as he makes his way downstairs, and it creaks ominously under his weight. Perhaps he should mount it more securely to the wall. Or drink less. He dismisses that option: he _does_ drink less. This is, what, the first time in...a really long time that he’s gotten this drunk? It’s the bannister that needs to change, not him.

Fenris is standing in the kitchen, poking at something in a frying pan. Hawke resists the urge to sweep behind Fenris and wrap his arms around him and kiss the top of his head, and _oh_ how he wants to. But Fenris is Fenris, even if things aren’t quite real this morning, and Fenris never approves of affection in the kitchen while he is cooking. So Hawke takes a seat at the island and watches Fenris, waiting for him to turn and smile, to acknowledge Hawke’s presence.

The bacon is pulled out of the pan and laid on a paper towel-lined plate. In the grease still crackling in the pan, Fenris cracks eggs, seasoning them critically, a light frown on his face. This is his usual cooking face, concentrating and serious, as though he needs everything to turn out _just right_ , as if it is a personal failing if it does not. Hawke loves watching Fenris cook, the way his every movement is controlled and precise; it’s like watching a dance. A dance that ends with food, which, really, is the best kind.

The dog comes over, pushing his face against Hawke’s leg to demand scratches. He must know not to approach Fenris in the kitchen too. Hawke obliges the dog, leaning down a little to better access his neck and back, and Cheerio’s tail sets a-wagging, thumping into the side of the island. Hawke misses the look Fenris sends his way. On inspection, Hawke discovers Cheerio’s food bowl has been filled and placed on the dog table with a full bowl of water, and his heart surges in his chest. Fenris, wonderful Fenris!

Hawke straightens, weaving a bit on his chair, and beams at Fenris as a plate of eggs and bacon is set in front of him. Fenris smiles back, placing a glass of water on the island, though, really, what was that look? It didn’t quite seem like Fenris, though with the way the world feels right now, perhaps that makes sense. Hawke sets to the breakfast, making short work of the bacon before something buried deeper in his brain calls a halt. That look...on Fenris…

Hawke raises his head, and his eyes meet Fenris’s for a moment before those green eyes dance away to rest somewhere on the floor. Hawke frowns and rests his elbows on either side of his plate, cupping his chin in his hands. He reaches for the water, draining the whole glass, and the world begins to sharpen and solidify.

“Fenris?” Fenris doesn’t even look up at him. “What’s wrong?”

Fenris props an arm against the refrigerator, turning toward the front door, presenting Hawke with only his profile. He raises his right hand, red cuff resplendent on his wrist, and pinches his forehead. He sighs.

“You...being with you… It was better than anything I could have dreamed.”

Hawke tilts his head, confused. “Fenris, what—”

The red cuff slices through the air, silencing Hawke. He blinks and half-rises off his stool, but Fenris’s hand, extended toward him, palm out, stops him. In profile, Fenris looks sad.

“But it is too much. This is too fast. I cannot...do this.”

Hawke sinks back onto his stool. “What do you mean?” he asks, voice soft in a way he only used with Bethany before he met Fenris.

“I cannot do this,” Fenris says again, sharp and cold. “ _We_ cannot do this.” He does not look at Hawke.

Which is just as well, for Hawke can’t seem to summon a facial expression that isn’t mute incomprehension. He thinks he knows what Fenris is saying, thinks he understands what Fenris’s unspoken words mean, he just can’t believe it. This all seems so out of the blue, and he wracks his brain, trying to figure out where he went wrong. Their evening, what he can recall from it anyway, had been filled with laughter, smiles, and kissing.

“What did I do?”

Fenris darts a look at him, and Hawke can tell it wasn’t intentional by how quickly and resolutely Fenris turns away again. It stings.

“It’s not you. My life before… I thought, if I ran fast enough and far enough, I could… but I can’t. I can’t.”

Hawke is still frozen, but he forces more words through his mouth, as if he can prevent Fenris from doing what he must have already decided on long before Hawke woke up by saying the right thing. “We can work through it.”

It’s not the right thing to say. Fenris laughs, and it sounds like ice. “No, we can’t. There is nothing for _us_ ,” and he spits the word, like it leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

And this is when Hawke snaps. Ignoring the headache brewing behind his left eye, he stands, kicking his stool backward with one foot. The dog runs upstairs, and Hawke can’t even find it in himself to care right now, though he’ll have to apologize profusely to the hound later. Fenris looks at him, all obstinacy and sadness, and Hawke snarls because he’s just angry, no mixed emotions here.

“What the fuck, Fenris? What the _fuck?_ ” Fenris actually flinches a little but doesn’t otherwise react. “All this time, all _this,_ ” and Hawke gestures to the crest around his neck and the cuff on Fenris’s wrist, “and what? Your past comes to haunt you and you just fucking drop the person who lo—who cares about you enough to _stand with you_ , against whatever it is?” Hawke rubs a finger against his scarred nose and glares at Fenis.

“Are you really so self-absorbed that you’re choosing to go play the wounded refugee alone in his giant house, instead of staying with _me_ ,” and his voice breaks but he forges on, “and fucking fight whatever it is?” Because for Fenris, for Fenris Hawke would fight anything, _do anything_ , if only Fenris would let him.

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Hiding away like a coward?”

“That’s what it fucking looks like, Fenris!”

“How little you know,” Fenris sneers. “You have no idea what I’ve gone through, what I still endure because of who I am, because of my life before.”

“Because you never fucking _tell me!_ ”

“You are not entitled to my whole life, Hawke,” Fenris says, flat and dangerous. Hawke throws his arms in the air, lets them fall back to smack against his thighs.

“Maybe not, but would it have killed you to open up a bit more? I _want_ to know you, Fenris! I want to be there for you!”

Fenris gives him a look that feels too close to pity. “No, you don’t. You say so, but in the end you’ll do as everyone else has done: pull away and look at me as some broken plaything. I cannot, I will not have that from you.”

“So you assume how I’ll feel about you and pull away first, is that it? That’s your grand solution? I’ll tell you something, Fenris: that plan sucks balls. It’s probably about the worst I’ve ever heard, and I work with Isabela.” Hawke folds his arms over his bare chest. He’d never bothered throwing a shirt on before coming downstairs. He doesn’t regret it, let Fenris see what he’s throwing away.

“In fact, your plan is so stupid,” he continues, before Fenris can get a word in, “that it should be a relief that you’re running away. Maybe you’re saving me from what I should have seen earlier.”

Fenris slowly closes his mouth and swallows. “Indeed,” he says, and that’s it. He grabs his jacket from where he’d tossed it on the couch when they came in last night, or was it early that morning, and wrenches the door open, slamming it behind him.

Hawke stands alone in the kitchen, watching the door, for a long time. It finally becomes clear that Fenris won’t be coming back in, an apology on his lips, and that it’s too late for Hawke to chase him with one of his own. He grits his teeth, refusing the emotion that wells behind his eyes, and throws his breakfast plate at the sink. It shatters, shards arcing out of the sink to land somewhere on the floor, and Hawke can’t find it in him to care about that yet either. He feels the finality of that door slam in the core of his being. Apparently Fenris doesn’t care about Hawke the way Hawke does for Fenris (did, Hawke tells himself, _did_ care about, time to use the past tense), and the confirmation of his fear is paralyzing. How could he have been so stupid?

Hawke is a fool. He let that man smile at him one too many times, take him to bed, make him believe it all meant something. And that smile had burrowed into his heart, all the way to a deep place that now hurts like hell as Fenris rips himself out of his life. But that’s what fools get, for falling in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate music rec: "This is Gospel" by Panic! at the Disco.  
> Alt alt rec (for the last paragraph): "Ophelia" by The Lumineers
> 
> Also, I'm sorry.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which life goes on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music recs:  
> "Rain" - Breaking Benjamin  
> "Winter in my Heart" - VAST

Monday is the worst day of Hawke’s life. He spends it on the couch, still shirtless, wearing the same pants he slept in. Cheerio curls up at his side, whining occasionally which only makes the whole thing that much more terrible. He gets up to feed the dog only when he’s reminded to by a licking tongue and heavy paws. He’s officially the worst ever. Now the dog’s feeding schedule is fucked. It’s one thing to fuck himself, quite another to fuck up his dog. 

He texts Fenris.

H: **_I’m sorry._** (10:51 am)

H: **_Just tell me what I can do._** (2:15 pm)

H: **_I’ll do anything._** (2:16 pm)

Fenris doesn’t text back.

He isn’t sure what hurts worse: that Fenris won’t respond or that Hawke had actually hoped he would.

He doesn’t sleep. Or if he does, it’s in fits and starts on the couch. He can’t go upstairs. Upstairs is the bed that Fenris slept in on New Years. The bed that Fenris insisted he needed to spend more time in, to get used to so he wouldn’t throw Hawke to the floor every time he stayed over. Because he wanted to stay over. 

So yeah, there’s no way in hell Hawke is going upstairs.

Except he has to, come Tuesday evening, if he’s going to get his ass up and go to work. He levers himself off the couch, his feet trailing on the stairs. He doesn’t even look toward the bed, just grabs his clothes from the dresser and retreats into the bathroom. It’s the bathroom that betrays him. In the mirror he can see the crest that still hangs around his neck. He raises his hands to unclasp it, to put it away in a dark drawer where he won’t see it again. Instead he turns the shower on and stands under the pounding water, staring at the wall until the water gets cold. Getting out, he realizes he didn’t actually soap up, but fuck it, he got up and showered. It’s the thought that counts.

He’s lightheaded and a little dizzy as he walks to work. Probably from a lack of food, or sleep, or hydration. Or a winning combination of all three. Zevran closes his mouth on whatever he was about to say when Hawke holds up a hand, not even looking at him, on his way through the floor to the office.

“I’m ordering in a pizza or something,” he announces to Varric, who is nose deep in some paperwork.

Varric looks up, squints at Hawke, and leans back in his chair. “You look like shit.”

“Better out than in,” Hawke snaps, turns on his heel, and stalks out the back door to place his pizza call. A pint of water is waiting for him at his normal seat when he gets back in, and he narrows his eyes at Zevran who shrugs and goes back to hanging wine glasses.

“Drink up, Hawke!” Varric calls from the office.

Zevran refills the glass when Hawke drains it in one go. Turns out he’s a little thirsty. 

The first few hours of work are OK; it’s nice to focus on something else, to channel his energy somewhere, to do something. The bar isn’t super busy, but there’s enough going on that Hawke can rotate his attention around the various groups and be constantly entertained.

The next few hours, as the clock slowly counts down to Fenris’s normal time, are not OK. Hawke finds it’s more difficult to keep track of the patrons around the bar, and he’s no longer sure what’s happening with which group of people. He keeps looking toward the door, even when it’s not opening but especially when it is, his head snapping to the side with too much force. He rubs at the muscles on the side of his neck as he stares at one party in the corner.

It hits 11:00 and passes, time ticking on. Somehow that does nothing to bring Hawke’s anxiety down. He spills his drink the next time he goes to pick it up, ignoring Zevran’s worried look, nearly stumbles off his stool when he stands, and actually walks into the doorjamb when he tries to enter the office after they’ve closed.

“Let me drive you home, Hawke,” is all Varric says to that one, for which Hawke is grateful.

The ride is mostly silent, just some quiet jazz music coming through Varric’s speakers, until they pull up outside Hawke’s house. Varric thumbs the automatic lock when Hawke goes for the handle, and the broken little piece of lock equipment disappears into the door away from Hawke’s grasping fingers.

“Who died?” Varric asks. 

“What?”

“I’m assuming, based on your behavior and past events I’ve been witness to, that someone died. Please, do tell me if I’m wrong.”

Hawke stares out the window at his house. “You’re wrong.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” Varric twiddles with the volume knob. “What is it then?”

“Let me out.”

“Come on, Hawke. I know something’s going on.”

“And that’s all you’re going to know. Let me out. Or I’ll let myself out.” Hawke leans away from the window, fist raised, and Varric unlocks the doors, sighing. He’s not dumb enough to test Hawke on that.

“Alright, fine. You know where to find me.”

Hawke grunts and closes the car door without completely slamming it. Varric watches him walk up to his front door, shoulders hunched, hands shoved in pockets, and shakes his head. He’ll ask Isabela what’s up. Either she’ll know or she’ll be able to get it out of Hawke in that skillful way of hers. Varric might be a good storyteller, but Isabela’s a good story-getter. Hawke’s front door closes, but no lights turn on, downstairs or upstairs. Varric frowns and texts Isabela before he pulls away.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Bethany texts on Saturday, while Hawke is sitting on the couch because the farmers’ market is closed for the winter and that’s his least favorite thing about November through March.

B: **_Soooo, how’s Fenris??? :D_** (12:14 pm)

Hawke scowls at his phone and doesn’t reply.

B: **_Is he over?_** (12:14 pm)

B: **_Are you CUDDLING?_** (12:15 pm)

B: **_Please say yes, it’s been a rough week._** (12:15 pm)

B: **_I need to know something is going right._** (12:15 pm)

After that, he can’t _not_ text her back. 

H: **_What happened?_** (12:17 pm)

B: **_Gallery politics. Ugh. I’m an artist, not a politician._** (12:18 pm)

B: **_But Orsino is getting pressure from someone to sell so he’s making me and Ella write statements of protest to send._** (12:19 pm)

H: **_The fuck is that going to accomplish?_** (12:20 pm)

B: **_I don’t know! But what else is there to do?_** (12:20 pm)

H: **_Orsino owns the gallery?_** (12:21 pm)

B: **_No, some lady named Elthina does. Orsino just manages the place. I’ve never met her, but Orsino seems to think she might cave._** (12:22 pm)

H: **_Tell me if I can do anything._** (12:22 pm)

B: **_I don’t think we need anyone threatened, big brother. But I’ll keep that in mind._** (12:24 pm)

B: **_But ANYWAY_** (12:24 pm)

B: **_IS Fenris over? Are you marinating in bliss?_** (12:25 pm)

H: **_I can do more than threaten people._** (12:27 pm)

H: **_I’m a good intimidating presence, too._** (12:28 pm)

B: **_I know. You’re great at it._** (12:28 pm)

B: **_Why are you avoiding my questions?_** (12:29 pm)

B: **_WHY ARE YOU AVOIDING MY QUESTIONS BIG BROTHER_** (12:35 pm)

It’s stupid and it’s childish and he shouldn’t do it, but Hawke tosses his phone to the other side of the couch after turning the sound off. He wishes desperately there had been something to do today, but Anso hadn’t been able to pull anything on short notice. He’s got a job lined up for Sunday and another for Monday, and at least he works this evening, but it’s the daylight hours that are killing him, giving him too much time to remember mere weeks ago when he and Fenris would spend the weekends together, lounging around Fenris’s mansion, drinking wine Fenris insisted was good. Hawke scowls and raises the volume on the police procedural reruns playing on the TV to drown out the thoughts in his head.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“I had to throw away a bottle of wine because of you.” Hawke can hear Isabela talking to Fenris farther down the bar and tries not to listen in, but he can’t help himself. Fenris does look appropriately chagrined, and Hawke feels a rush of vicious joy at that. It offsets the unsettled feeling that’s been coiling in his belly since Fenris walked in.

“I apologize. I...didn’t realize you would hold it for me.”

“Well, _obviously_ I would hold it for you,” Isabela says, hips cocked to one side, hands perched judgingly atop them. “Varric told me to let the rabble have it, but I said no, one more day. And by then it was too late.” She makes an airy motion with one hand and stares at Fenris. “Explain why I wasted very, very good wine for you.”

Hawke is startled when Fenris throws him a quick glance, eyebrows pulled together in...guilt? That makes no sense.

“I…”

“Ah. No, no, I get it.” Isabela drops her voice and smiles at Fenris, a little sadly. “I understand now.”

Fenris clasps his hands in front of him on the bar, studying his white-lined fingers. “Would you like me to leave?”

“What? Perish the thought. You’re still a paying customer.” She drops one hand on top of Fenris’s for a brief moment before busying herself getting a glass of wine. “And you’re still my friend,” she says, placing the glass in front of him. The smile Fenris gives her is grateful and more than a little relieved.

Hawke growls an exhale and leaves the bar to walk the floor. He notices the way Fenris’s eyes flicker to him then back to the wine glass as if burned. What is Fenris even doing here? Surely he could find another bar to get a glass of wine at when he wants one, not that he doesn’t have a large collection at his house, Hawke knows. Why invade Hawke’s space? Unless it’s simply to cause him further pain. It’s not like Hawke can throw him out: Fenris hasn’t done anything to warrant it, according to the rules, and Isabela said he could stay since he’s paying for his drink. Fenris has to be doing it on purpose, Hawke decides, rubbing salt in the wound because he can. Hawke hadn’t thought Fenris one to do something like that, but, well, he was wrong before, too, wasn’t he?

The only response he can think of is to show Fenris that it doesn’t hurt, that seeing him in The Hanged Man does not cause him distress at all. Easier said than done, since it _does_ hurt, it _is_ distressing, and he doesn’t want to see Fenris at all if he can help it. But Hawke has faced worse things than a breakup in his life. He can do this.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“You can’t hide from me, big brother!” Bethany yells as she opens Hawke’s front door. He regrets ever giving her a key. It’s not like he’s hiding though, camped out on the couch as he is, and Bethany spots him easily enough when she looks around. Her eyes widen and then she frowns, glaring at him with a patented, disappointed little sister look.

“You haven’t eaten recently, have you?” Bethany asks, bending to take off her shoes and socks. She always walks barefoot around his house, says she likes the feel of the hardwood.

“Uh,” Hawke says, and stops. He’s actually not sure when the last time he ate was. There is still coffee in the coffee pot though, he does know that much.

“Sweet Maker, brother, what the hell happened in here?” 

Lack of interest, really. By the sound of Bethany’s voice, she’s heading for the kitchen. Hawke hasn’t cleaned anything up since Monday morning, just made coffee around it and piled dishes on any free spot of counter real estate. He’s sure it looks bad to her; he just has zero fucks to give about it and so doesn’t care.

Bethany sighs, stomps her foot lightly once, and strides into the kitchen with a purpose. Then, “Ow! Ow, fuck! _Brother!_ ”

Hawke is on his feet before she’s finished saying “ow,” his nerves alight with perceived danger to his sibling. He’s at her side when she yells at him, and he looks down to see the shards of his plate, still scattered across the kitchen floor, one of them sticking out of Bethany’s foot.

“You. Big. Shit,” she says, hitting him in the arm with each word. He picks her up and sets her on the island, out of reach of the rest of the shards. “Why is that plate in _pieces?_ ”

Hawke doesn’t answer, just frowns in concentration and lifts Bethany’s foot to examine the injury. It doesn’t look serious, the plate shard isn’t in too deep, and as far as he can tell it hasn’t splintered further. He squeezes her ankle, both as a reassurance and a request to keep still, and shuffles around under the kitchen sink for a first aid kit. He has one here and one in each bathroom, all up to date and not expired. Though he has a tendency to be a bit of a slob, this is one thing from the ROTC that didn’t leave him. He washes his hands, aware of Bethany’s eyes on him, then grabs her foot again with one hand, carefully extracting the shard with the other. The shard goes in the sink when it’s out, and he grabs a sterile gauze pad from the first aid kit, pressing it to the arch of her foot and holding it there with strong fingers. He doesn’t look at her, not until Bethany’s fingers on his cheek make him.

“Why?” she asks.

He tries to look anywhere but into her eyes. It’s not a question he wants to answer, not a _series_ of questions he wants to answer, because one always leads to two leads to more with Bethany. But, Bethany being Bethany…

“Oh Garrett, did Fenris..?” She wraps her arms around him, which makes it hard to hold the bandage to her foot, but he manages. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s nothing.”

Bethany snorts and leans back so she can give him the full effect of her imperious eyebrow raise. “Obviously. That’s why a plate is in pieces, the coffee’s still in the pot, and your dishes are everywhere. You’re not usually quite _this_ much of a mess.” Hawke shifts his grip on her foot, and Bethany catches the glint of the crest beneath his shirt as he moves. She reaches out to brush it with tentative fingers, and Hawke flinches away. Bethany frowns.

“Oh, Garrett,” she says again, softer and sadder, but after that she doesn’t bring up Fenris again. Hawke transfers her to the kitchen counter from the island so he can wash her foot in the sink once it stops bleeding. He washes it again for good measure, applying an antibiotic and wrapping the foot in a clean bandage. And then he finally grabs a broom and sweeps up all the bits of plate around the kitchen. Bethany, with a somewhat forced air of cheeriness, directs him in a few other kitchen chores, like putting his mugs in the dishwasher and rinsing out the coffee pot, before she leaves.

Thirty minutes later the doorbell rings, and he opens the door to find a delivery driver for the Chinese place down the street with an order of food, already paid for.

H: **_Thank you_**

B: **_Love you too, big brother_**

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Hawke spends as much of his time working as he can. Anso is easy to badger into giving him work during the week; Meeran comes through with the larger gigs on Sundays and Mondays. Hawke hasn’t slept this well in years. There’s literally no time in his schedule for anything but work and sleep; when he’s working, he’s not thinking of Fenris, and when he’s sleeping, he’s passed the fuck out because his work days are so long. Life is about as good as it’s going to get.

Except that Fenris keeps coming into The Hanged Man. Not every day, sure, but at least once, maybe twice a week. He takes the stool six away from Hawke, like he used to when they first met, but he doesn’t try to greet him, just orders his wine and chats vaguely with Isabela or Zevran before leaving when he’s finished his drink. Hawke, for his part, ignores Fenris as best he can, though he makes sure to lean closer to Zevran than strictly necessary and grin with his closest approximation of nonchalance when either bartender speaks to him.

It throws him for a bit the day he sees Fenris’s cuff again.

Isabela fishes for the bottle of wine as Fenris sheds his jacket onto the hook underneath the bar top. She pours, and he absently rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. Hawke is watching the floor, specifically a pack of either college students or recent graduates, he can’t decide, who are celebrating a little too hard the imminent start of the new semester. So he doesn’t notice, at first, not until Fenris reaches with his right arm for the wine glass, and the movement catches his eye.

He stares. He can’t help it. His hand twitches at his side, nearly rising to touch his throat and the hidden crest there. That slash of red has no business still being on Fenris’s arm, though he supposes he has little room to talk himself. He swallows past the tightness in his throat and grips his drink, his knuckles paling. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself, trying to look away and failing. It doesn’t matter. It’s probably just another cuff to him now, worn when he wants a dash of color. Except that Fenris notices his staring, flushes slightly, and very nearly rolls his sleeve back down, as if Hawke should not have seen that it was there. That makes no sense, and Hawke shakes his head and heads over to give a warning to the kids.

He spends a few minutes just standing with Sten out front afterward. Sten doesn’t talk much, which Hawke appreciates, but he does give a hell of a judging stare, so Hawke goes back in before it gets leveled at him. Fenris still sits at the bar, scrolling through something on his phone while Isabela serves another patron. He left his sleeve rolled up.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

He should know it’s a dream by the way Fenris smiles at him and takes his hand. He just doesn’t care. Fenris pulls him down to sit in the grass of the park that’s not quite the park by his house, pillowing his head in Hawke’s lap. Hawke runs his fingers through fine white hair, and Fenris rumbles his approval. With the certainty dreamers have, Hawke knows there are birds chirping and a light breeze blowing and some joggers rounding the path behind them. He can’t see the birds or the joggers, can’t feel the breeze like he can’t actually feel Fenris’s hair, but he knows how all of these things look and feel. His brain fills in the gaps.

Fenris rolls onto his back, staring up at Hawke with his wide green eyes. He raises a hand, gently touches Hawke’s lips, and asks, “Hawke, do you love me?”

Hawke’s eyes snap open wide, and he stares up at the ceiling for a minute before sitting up and swinging his feet off the couch. He breathes heavily, resting his forehead in one hand. “I don’t care,” he says, heart pounding. “I don’t. Care. I. Don’t. Care.” He gets up and shuffles into the kitchen, absolutely not thinking about the one person he used to text this early in the morning when he couldn’t sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments! Your pain sustains me <3


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone unexpected shows up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music rec:  
> "Hells Bells" - AC/DC

January passes in a haze of work, though Hawke’s dreams are plagued with Fenris. Fenris asking if Hawke loves him or going down on him or, strangely, one where Fenris isn’t physically present at all and, though Hawke can feel him somewhere nearby, he can’t find him. Each time he wakes up from one of these, he feels unsettled and anxious, and sometimes angrily horny. So he makes coffee, or jerks himself off and then makes coffee, and sits at his kitchen table to read the journals his father left behind.

He’s not skimming them anymore, not simply looking for information that could lead him to whoever Larius worked for, but actually reading. These journals compose a lot of Hawke’s earlier years, and he finds himself starved for information, greedily soaking up each page his father wrote. It hurts, there’s no getting around that, but it’s a hurt he’s been carrying for years, a hurt that’s more of an old friend at this point, a somewhat comfortable ache in his chest. It’s an easier pain to bear than his thoughts of Fenris, at least.

He touches the crest absently and flips another page. 

_It’s hard to hide when you’re a teacher. Your name and photo get posted to the website of each school you work at, there’s usually some sort of news item that happens whenever you leave or accept a position, and that’s not to mention all the students talking about you on social media. I’d pick that last one as the way to be found out every time, just because it means more. If I can at least make a difference to some student before I have to pick up and move, then it’s worth it._

_Garrett gave me a knowing look when I came home from work today and told him I needed to speak to Leandra in private. He didn’t say anything, just rounded up Carver and Bethany and disappeared into their bedroom. When I went in to say good night, he’d already started packing some of the twins’ things. I’m not sure he ever fully unpacked when we moved here._

_Maker forgive me. What have I done?_

Hawke pushes the journal away from him and lowers his forehead to the table. He doesn’t remember that, but they’d moved quite a few times in the fifteen years after the twins were born; it stands to reason that he wouldn’t remember them all. He wishes he did. He always wishes he had more memories of his father. The journals are recreating some, but they’re false memories engendered by someone else’s words. He’ll never have a true recollection of some of these moments.

With a sigh, he rises, finishes off his coffee, feeds the dog, and heads to work. School groups are beginning to tour around the museum, which means Anso has been able to get him on the schedule several days a week. There are a few fancy Hightown galleries he splits the week with, often working straight from 8:00 am until he finishes at The Hanged Man at 2:00 am. He texts Bethany as he walks.

H: _**Can you feed the dog this evening?**_

B: _**Again?**_

H: _**Yes again. Can we just make this a standing arrangement?**_

Bethany doesn’t text back, but Hawke knows she’ll look in on the dog. She loves the beast more than he does, sometimes. It would be easier for him to get home and take care of Cheerio if he had a car, but he’s never gotten around to it. Walking works just as well, even if it takes a little longer. And, if he’s honest, he’s never quite exited the mindset of having to save money. He’s under no threat of not having enough money for anything, these days, but hell if he’ll buy something that isn’t food or a necessity anyway.

He spends his day wandering around the museum, yelling at children. It’s pretty satisfying to see the small things jump and look guilty when he barks, “hands off the dinosaur!” It’s even better when he can see a tour group in front of him filled with children who are looking around nervously for him, eyes getting wide when they spot him. He doesn’t care that much for what’s housed in the museum, but at least someone needs to keep the little monsters in line when the teachers are too overwhelmed to keep track of all their students.

On his breaks, Hawke mainlines coffee outside the back door, the combination of the cold and the caffeine serving to re-energize his system. He nods to the museum workers who join him on their smoke breaks but doesn’t strike up a conversation, only responding in monosyllables and grunts when spoken to. Most of them have learned to leave him alone by now, but there are always new interns who have to get taught.

Hawke grabs a sandwich from the corner store and a coffee from Redcliffe on his walk to The Hanged Man. It’s become a familiar routine, and the baristas at Redcliffe have begun to recognize him. Maybe in a week or two, they’ll have his drink memorized. Hawke pushes the door to The Handed Man open, and Varric looks up from where he’s talking to Isabela over the bar. He looks Hawke over and glances back at Isabela.

“Well, I’ve got some phone calls to make. You know where I’ll be.”

It’s a slow Tuesday. Hawke hates slow days. He hates Tuesdays too, because Fenris seems to favor coming in on Tuesdays now. He tries to pass the time chatting with Isabela, since there doesn’t seem to be anyone on the floor in need of a good face smashing, but he keeps looking at the door and tapping his fingers on the bar top.

“He’s not coming today,” Isabela says finally, pulling a pint glass from the wet rack and drying it.

“Who?” Hawke asks, feigning ignorance. Isabela hits him.

“You know who.”

Hawke rubs his arm and glares at Isabela. “I don’t care.”

“Mhmm. Anyway, he said he had some sort of important appointment and that he’d try to be in later in the week.”

“His appointments are on Mondays,” Hawke mumbles, unable to stop himself. Isabela raises an eyebrow, but Hawke pretends he hadn’t said anything.

“Just thought you might like to know.” 

“I don’t care,” Hawke repeats and turns from Isabela’s piercing gaze to watch the floor. But he no longer glances at the door, and his hand stills on the bar. It isn’t until they’ve locked doors and are cleaning up for the night that Isabela lays one hand on his arm, one hand on his cheek, and kisses him.

“I’m sorry, tiger. I know how much he means to you.”

Hawke tries to shrug her off, but she won’t budge. “I don’t—”

“Yes, yes, you don’t care. Just shut up and take my sympathy, OK? This isn’t my area of expertise, but since you won’t join us on Sundays any more to let Merrill smother you in love, this is what you’re getting.”

Hawke sighs and subsides. Isabela pats his cheek gently. “We miss you,” she says and lets him go.

He walks home in the cold, refusing a ride from Varric. That was a mistake, as his mind helpfully takes the time to mull over this new information from Isabela. What could be Fenris’s important appointment? Hawke is basically sure it’s not one of his usual appointments: those are on Mondays, and Fenris had never called them “important” before, just “appointments.” And if Fenris were feeling ill, he would have simply said so. Come to think of it, what sort of important appointment could Fenris have so late at night, anyway? 

By the time he gets home, Hawke’s mind is exhausted from running around in circles. He lets himself in, remembering to lock the door behind him tonight, and drags over to the pantry to feed the dog. The dog. Where _is_ the dog? Cheerio usually greets him at the door, wagging tail stump and cold snout, excited to see him after so much time away. He calls and whistles, still no dog. Hawke searches all around his house, clicking his tongue and calling, but he finds nothing. He’s pretty sure the house had actually been locked when he left this morning, but he checks the pathetic excuse for a backyard anyway, just in case. The dog didn’t slip out this morning either; he’s a bit too large for that.

So where the hell is his dog?

Stalking back through the house on his way to the front door, fully intending on searching his neighborhood on foot, he pulls up short as a piece of paper on the island catches his eye. On closer inspection, it’s written in Bethany’s neat, curling script, and as Hawke reads, his stomach drops.

_Dear, dear brother,_

_Cheerio came home with me. He’s going to live at the house until you can get your shit together. It’s not fair to him that you’re never home. He gave me the saddest look today and he always looks sad. I promise I’ll give him back, but I can’t let you neglect him and not do anything._

_I’m sorry it had to come to this. But maybe it’s what you need to pick yourself back up. I know Fenris hurt you, but ignoring it isn’t going to make anything any better._

_If you need to talk, I’ll be here. And if you want to visit your dog, you know where he’ll be._

_< 3  
Bethany_

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

M: _  
**Don’t need you Sunday. Take the day**  
_

Hawke stares at his phone in disbelief. Don’t need him? It’s dark in his house, the only light coming from the single flood light above the sink. Hawke stands in the kitchen, waiting on the coffee to finish brewing. He hadn’t seen the text until now, though it came in at a reasonable hour Thursday night. What the hell is he going to do with himself for an entire day if he isn’t working for at least eight hours of it?

Not a lot, as it turns out when Sunday rolls around. He ventures out to the liquor store and returns with a couple six packs that he dives into at an hour entirely unheard of for drinking. The first few hours are spent with beer and trash TV, but it makes Hawke itch, and he finds himself pacing around his house, up and down the stairs, for another hour. After that, he tries to take a crack at reading more from his father’s journals, but nothing sticks in his brain with all the liquor sloshing around in there and he has to quit.

It’s a terrible day. Hawke hates Meeran by the end of it, about ready to haul out to the shitty coffeehouse in Lowtown he’s claimed as an unofficial office, but when he stands from the couch, he finds he can’t walk properly, so he sits back down and instead imagines punching Meeran in the face. Repeatedly. It’s not the same, but it’ll have to do for now.

He passes out on the couch, only waking up when his phone’s alarm goes off Monday morning, and despite the hangover, it’s a beautiful day because he can _work_. He doesn’t even mind the piercing screams of the children running around the museum as much as usual, even with his head threatening revolution; he’s just so damn happy to be working, though you’d never be able to tell by looking at him. He scowls the same as ever. It’s his happy scowl.

On Wednesday, he places a call to Anso, just to check in about his week ahead. Make sure he’s still got the same shifts and nothing’s changing up on him. He’s had this rotation for a few weeks now, and there have been a couple changes to times, so it’s always a good idea to double check. Anso nearly doesn’t pick up the phone. The amount of rings before his nervous voice comes on is worrisome.

“Oh, Hawke, hello. I didn’t expect to hear from you.” 

Hawke narrows his eyes in suspicion at the sidewalk in front of him. “I always call like this, Anso.”

“Oh, right, right. I, uh, forgot it was Wednesday.”

Right. Because that bodes well. “Look, just tell me I’ve got my shifts next week and I’ll let you go.” A pause on the other end and Hawke stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk. He’s not budging one step until he hears what’s going on. Not that it matters to Anso.

“I’ve got the museum on Monday, and the gallery on Thursday. Normal hours. Maybe again on Friday if someone else calls in.”

“What the hell, Anso? You suddenly got someone better than me taking the work?”

There’s some nervous shuffling on the other end which Hawke knows means Anso is trying to figure out exactly how to phrase the lie so that he won’t truly be caught in it. At least Meeran just straight out and says whatever he wants. Anso has always been a little...squirrely. 

“Fuck it, never mind. I’ll take Monday and Thursday. Call me immediately if Friday opens,” he growls.

Anso squeaks. “Yes, of course, Hawke! Absolutely. One hundred percent will call you if it opens up.”

Yeah, right. Hawke hangs up without saying goodbye. He can tell there’s something fishy going on. Meeran and Anso don’t just drop him from the schedule without having a reason. It’s probably Varric’s doing, he figures. Varric had been able to convince Meeran to let him off a few months ago when he’d wanted more time to be with Fenris and his friends; it wouldn’t surprise him if Varric thought he was working too much and had conspired with them to shuffle him off the schedule. He snarls and starts walking again, intending on having a very strongly worded conversation with Varric when he gets into The Hanged Man.

As luck would have it, however, Varric isn’t in the office when he gets in. And when Varric does come through the door, Hawke is busy talking down a middle-aged woman who strongly believes that it goes against her Maker-given rights to cut her off. “Talking” is a bit of a mild way to put it, and the woman ends up storming out the door, yelling about filing a complaint with his manager, the bar association, and various other employee groups around the city-state. Hawke doesn’t care because the bar association? Really? She’s definitely too drunk to follow through on any threat. When he goes back to his stool, Varric is standing in the doorway to the office, one hand wrapped around his forehead.

“You’re gonna make me gray before my time, Hawke,” is all he says before he disappears back into the office.

Varric leaves shortly before close, saying he needs to see a man about a horse and ignoring Hawke when he tries to speak with him. Well, if that doesn’t say guilt, Hawke doesn’t know what would. He and Isabela close up, locking the doors and parting ways around 3:00 am.

Going home to his empty house is becoming his least favorite thing. It’s topping the lack of the farmers’ market in the winter. Not having the dog to at least be happy that he made it home alive is an ache he didn’t expect. Cheerio’s presence had become a given over the years they’d been together; Hawke had never imagined a time when the dog wouldn’t be there. He nearly texts Bethany to ask for a picture of the dog but stops himself. He’s not that pathetic. He can take the empty house, he can handle the loneliness. He brought it on himself.

Instead he texts Isabela that he made it home, receiving a similar text from her, and falls over onto the couch. At least he still has work for the rest of _this_ week.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

He hasn’t slept in his bed in a month and a half. The sheets still lie as they did after New Years, and Hawke can’t bring himself to tidy them or strip the bed. The couch works, though he’s developed an ache in his neck that won’t seem to go away no matter how much he thumbs it. Hawke passes the bed, grabs clothes from the dresser, and showers. He dries the crest after getting out with methodical detachment and dresses. Not like he had to dress yet today, considering his only work is at The Hanged Man that evening.

“Thanks for nothing, Anso,” Hawke grumbles to himself, pouring a cup of coffee. The only good thing he’s found about not working a few mornings is that he again has time to dive into Malcolm’s journals. He’s even hauled out his old laptop, placing the computer and the journals side by side on the kitchen table as he attempts to do his detective work. Google has thus far been unsurprisingly unhelpful, though with searches like “Cory P loan shark” and “Larius Lothering Cory P,” he shouldn’t be shocked. He doesn’t have a lot to go on, and unfortunately the journals aren’t helping as much as he’d wish.

They’re still mostly personal anecdotes with a little bit of suffering and moving thrown in to spice things up. Hawke still Googles every city they ever lived in to see if there are any relevant hits at all. He thinks he gets lucky one time, searching for Denerim, but turns out there’s just a big problem with people turning to loan sharks in Denerim, and the article is about how to protect yourself from people who prey on the helpless. So, useless for him. He considers calling the Denerim Police, since the number is listed at the bottom of the article, but dismisses it as a terrible idea. It’s not like they would give out information associated with any loan sharks they might be pursuing. He’d just raise suspicions. Though Denerim is back in Ferelden, he still isn’t interested in that kind of potential scrutiny. What if they trace phone calls as a matter of course? He doesn’t want to find out.

Hawke’s Tuesday and Wednesday are full of journals and Google and coffee when he’s not at The Hanged Man. He doesn’t sleep much, just naps at the table occasionally, though he does get a couple hours stretched out on the couch early Wednesday morning. The journals are starting to get toward what Hawke is looking for; Malcolm keeps referencing some research he’s been doing at the libraries each time they settle somewhere new, but thus far nothing has been written down, at least not where Hawke can read it. He has a moment of panic Wednesday afternoon at the thought that all of Malcolm’s research might be hidden somewhere else, not in the journals at all:

_I think I’ve hit on something. Something real. If I’m right, it ties everything I’ve found thus far together. I’ve kept my research separate, hidden each piece somewhere else. I can’t risk it coming together until I’m sure. But after this, if this turns out, I’ll have to lay it all out somewhere._

Somewhere. Fuck it all.

A glance toward the coffee pot reveals it empty, and Hawke scrubs his face with his hands. Working tonight is going to be murder. Isolde, the women who runs Redcliffe Coffee, squints at him when he comes through the door before work.

“And ‘ow much death am I putting in your cup today?” she asks, hands on her hips.

“As much as you’ll give me.” Hawke doesn’t quail under her gaze, just holds her eyes until she throws up her hands and goes to make him his drink.

“I will ‘ave to put a warning on your cup,” she mutters, “so that the police know I did not poison you.”

Hawke snorts and tips her a few dollars on his way out. He feels he owes her more than that for filling his cup nearly full with enough espresso to probably kill a smaller human being, but he only has so much cash on his person. He’ll come back with more later. Assuming he doesn’t die, which, judging from the strength of the first sip he takes, is actually a possibility. Bless that woman. He really does owe her.

The coffee keeps him on his feet for most of his shift, and he’s grateful. It does all kind of come crashing down as it gets closer to closing time, but that was honestly to be expected and he’s walked home like this before. He’s not worried. Isabela raises an eyebrow at him as they clean up and Varric offers him a ride home, but he waves them both off. The air will do him good, keep him awake until he gets home. If he rides with Varric, he’ll probably fall asleep in the car, and Varric’s more liable to drag him into a hotel room than take him home at that point.

He promises Isabela a text when he gets home, provided he doesn’t pass out on the couch first, and heads off. The night air nips at him, and he closes his eyes for a moment to breathe it in. Late night is a comforting time of day for him. He did a lot of work for Meeran at night back in the day, and the threat of muggings and murder that keeps normal Kirkwall citizens behind their doors doesn’t bother him. 

It is a sad testament to how hard he’s crashing after the caffeine that he doesn’t hear the first signs he’s being followed. In fact, it’s not until he tries to step around someone in his path that he realizes his walk home has gone completely sideways. The man in front of him side steps to meet Hawke and herds him toward the open mouth of a nearby alley. Why is it always alleys?

“You don’t want to do this,” he says, as much annoyance and venom injected into his voice as he can manage, even as he’s backing up. It doesn’t have the desired effect. The man in front of him, a hoodie drawn up around his face, just laughs, and Hawke can hear at least four more distinct voices behind him.

“I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks,” the man says and reaches up to lower his hood. Hawke gets that; hoods around your face make for poor spatial awareness in a fight, and even in at least five-to-one odds, you want the best advantage you can have. He does stare at the man for a long moment though, as the poor lighting around them illuminates pieces of his face. It suddenly doesn’t matter how many are arrayed against him: this one in front of him mugged Bethany. Hawke turns slowly, doing his best to count the dark shapes in the shadows of the alley. At least five, he thinks, six if you add the other guy, though a couple of the shadows are so still that he doubts his count.

“You’re not walking away from this.”

Hawke throws his weight sideways, catching Bethany’s mugger by surprise and toppling them both to the ground. He pivots his upper body and slams his elbow into the man’s face. “Neither are you.” Hawke can hear the other men coming up on him and regains his feet, kicking viciously at the downed man’s kneecap a few times until he hears a satisfying crack.

A blow connects with the side of his head, and he stumbles, tripping over the prone mugger, but manages to keep his feet, if barely. He turns, literally up against a wall, and snarls at the five men closing in. He knows there’s no way he can win this fight, not with the way he wants to keel over right then and there. But they don’t know that. Two of them take a step back, and Hawke surges forward to engage another, wrapping one arm around the man and punching for the kidneys. He lets the man drop when he goes weak in Hawke’s arms and rounds on another. 

The remaining four have closed ranks and advance on Hawke as one. Hawke sets one foot half a step back to anchor himself and raises his fists. The men stop, two in front of Hawke, two spreading out to either side, and Hawke grunts.

“Don’t suppose I can convince you to give up now,” he says, though he can feel his fists shaking.

The man to his right snorts and lifts a hand, signaling the others. He and the man to Hawke’s left grapple for Hawke’s arms, attempting to hold him as the other two advance to strike. Hawke manages to elbow the man to his right in the face, but his blow at the man on his left just glances off a shoulder, giving the guy on the right time to recover and wrestle that arm behind Hawke’s back, pinioning him. Hawke thrashes and nearly succeeds in throwing the man, but he forgot about the other two, who each lash out with a fist, catching Hawke in the solar plexus and stomach. He doubles over to protect against further blows, and that’s the end of it for Hawke. The man on his left immobilizes his arm with one hand to his elbow and the other to his shoulder, holding the arm straight out, threatening to break it. His right arm is still held tight behind him.

A foot kicks into his back leg, knocking him down to one knee. He growls his defiance even as the man kicks his other leg and Hawke ends up on both knees, glaring up at his attackers. He recognizes one more of them as another of Bethany’s muggers. His nostrils flare, and he gains his feet in a rush, headbutting the unsuspecting man before the pain of his left arm being wrenched out of its socket drags him back to the ground. The satisfaction of seeing the man put a shocked hand to his bleeding nose dulls the screaming in Hawke’s shoulder, and he bares his teeth in a savage grin. 

“He’s fucking nuts,” the man sputters, and Hawke just laughs. Laughs until the man kicks him in the stomach with the hard toe of his boot, and then Hawke wheezes, hanging his head as he tries to catch his breath. 

“Put him down.” The man holding Hawke’s right arm grabs Hawke’s hair and jerks his head up, as if presenting a target. The two in front of Hawke comply, the one with the broken and bleeding nose looking thunderous. His punches slam home worse than the other guy’s, like he’ll only get even once Hawke’s been tenderized like a steak. He even aims a kick at Hawke’s ribcage which Hawke is certain does at least fracture one or two of his ribs. Hawke weaves where he kneels as the two take a break from battering him, and he spits at their feet. The man with the broken nose laughs once and backhands him so hard Hawke blacks out.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Hawke claws his way back to consciousness and immediately regrets it. Everything hurts. He lies still, cheek pressed against the stones, keeping his eyes closed against the light. Wait, light? He’s been out of it long enough for it to be daytime, apparently. Shit. He had work this morning. Anso is probably going to think twice about giving him work after this. Hawke giggles weakly at the thought then groans when his abdomen and left shoulder both protest, spiking pain through his chest from two directions. Something needs to be done about that, but moving isn’t high on his list of things to do. He focuses on figuring out how to breathe without setting his chest on fire.

Once that’s mostly under control, Hawke opens his eyes, slowly, blinking frequently against the brightness. His wallet, open and empty, sits on the ground directly in front of him. At least it feels like his phone is still in his pocket, though it’s digging into his thigh, and he wonders if it cracked after the hit it sustained when he fell over. One disaster at a time. 

He reaches with his right arm to grab his wallet. His left arm is an abominably sharp pain where it rests against the stone, half-trapped under his body. Wallet in hand, Hawke uses his legs to help lever himself onto his back, groaning through gritted teeth. He pushes until he hits the wall of the alley and inches his way up until he’s sitting. His left shoulder hangs lower than his right, dislocated, useless, and really angry about it. He gathers that arm into his lap, trying as much as he can to keep the shoulder immobilized. It’s going to be hard to do that, and Hawke hangs his head for a minute, breathing and letting the pain subside again. He’s weak and dizzy, even sitting down, and he hates it.

He needs help. Anders...he needs Anders. Stupid smartass doctor, but he knows what he’s doing and knows well enough to keep quiet. From here, if Hawke can correctly recall which alley it is he’s in, it shouldn’t take him more than fifteen minutes once he can get himself standing.

Nearly an hour later, Hawke stumbles through the clinic doors. He hadn’t been wrong about where he’d been, just about how long it would take a severely injured man with a dislocated shoulder to scrape along alley walls. He’s pretty sure he’s bleeding again, the trauma of walking having torn some wounds open. The receptionist, the same woman who’d waved him and Fenris through ages ago, gasps softly and pages someone. Hawke opens his mouth to speak and collapses into the arms of someone nearly of a size with him. He has a moment to be grateful they were there before the shock of his shoulder jarring against his savior has him passing out again.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

This time when he wakes, Hawke is lying on his back on something vaguely soft, which is a vast improvement. Somewhere nearby he can hear muttering; somehow only the choice curses employed by the speaker are loud enough for him to make out. He groans, not opening his eyes, and tries to sit up, but an arm across his chest forces him back down. He must be drugged if he can’t even muster a squirm in protest. There’s something attached to him, and he wiggles his right arm as best he can. A hand grips his bicep.

Hawke’s eyes open in thin slits to glare at the arm on his chest. It’s a nice arm, well muscled, and the shoulder, though hidden under a shirt, looks the same. Strong jawline, lips quirked in amusement, nose, warm brown eyes, and dark blonde hair all shoved up in the front. Hawke opens his eyes further and blinks.

“Alistair?”

“‘Fraid so,” that amused mouth says, smiling just a touch more.

“What?” Hawke can’t manage any more than that, his head swimming. The cursing nearby stops and Anders’s face joins Alistair’s above Hawke. 

“It’s about bloody time.”

“What?”

Anders frowns at Hawke and starts poking and prodding all along his chest. Alistair helpfully moves out of the doctor’s way as needed but keeps his arm always above Hawke like a steel trap ready to descend. “You’ve been out for hours. I was this close to forcefully waking you. And don’t move; you’ll unseat the IV.”

Hawke’s eyebrows knit together. “Wha—”

“Oh bloody void. Do you remember walking into the clinic, at least?” Hawke nods and Anders sighs. “Thank the Maker for small miracles. You passed out inside the doors, and Alistair took you back to me. I’ve cleaned and closed everything I can. You’ll have to be careful with your ribs for a while; they’re not broken, just cracked. I can write you a prescription for some painkillers if you need. There’s an IV in your arm because you’re still shit at hydrating, apparently, you dumbass.” 

Anders looks at Hawke, then down to his shoulder. “I need to touch your shoulder, and it’s going to hurt like hell, but I can’t relocate it without checking it first.”

Hawke curls one side of his lip up in a snarl but closes his eyes and nods. He grits his teeth, and Alistair’s other hand moves from his bicep to his shoulder. That shouldn’t be comforting, and yet… That thought distracts him long enough for Anders to at least partially complete his checks, but the pain throbs back to the forefront before too long. He answers Anders’s questions as best he can through this teeth, breathing carefully through his nose. Finally Anders nods and grabs Hawke’s left arm, pulling and manipulating it just so, to pop it back in its socket. Hawke hisses but then it’s over, the sharp pain receding to a dull, relieved ache across that quadrant of his chest. 

“You’ll need to keep that arm immobilized for a few weeks,” Anders says, and his voice moves farther away. Alistair catches something and then cold seeps into Hawke’s shoulder, numbing it. “Anti-inflammatory painkillers when it hurts, and ice it for fifteen minutes every few hours. You managed to fully dislocate that, good job.”

Hawke groans in acknowledgment, though he knows he’s probably not following through with most those instructions, and tries to sit up. Even were it not for Alistair and his iron arms, Hawke wouldn’t have managed it. He collapses back onto the clinic bed, gasping at the pain that shoots from his shoulder.

“Oh for fuck’s—You’re not going anywhere, Hawke,” Anders says, exasperated, resetting the ice pack on Hawke’s shoulder. “I’m keeping you under observation for a day. After that you can go home and get Fenris to take care of you. Now, I have other patients to attend. Alistair will stay and make sure you don’t do anything stupid.” Hawke hears a door open and close and Alistair’s amused chuckle.

“Not like I could ever stop you before.”

Hawke grunts, opening his eyes again to peer at Alistair. “What are—”

“What am I doing here?” Alistair’s face adopts a guarded expression though he’s still smiling somewhat. “It’s a long story. Too long for your stamina at the moment.” He removes his hands and arms from Hawke’s body and points a stern finger in his face. “Stay.”

“You can’t...order me around anymore,” Hawke gripes, scowling to mask his disappointment at no longer being touched. Alistair moves around the small room, pulling a cup from the cabinet above the sink and filling it with water. He slowly raises the bed to a more vertical position and holds the cup to Hawke’s lips and grins.

“Drink.”

Hawke drinks. He glares at Alistair but the bastard cheerfully keeps tipping the cup up until Hawke has drained it. The cup is refilled, but thankfully Alistair just puts it on the small table next to Hawke’s bed and pulls over a chair. They sit in silence for a while until Alistair removes the ice pack, tossing it back into the mini freezer under the counter.

“When’d you last eat?”

Hawke really has to think about it. He’s not sure about his days right now, whether it’s still Thursday or if he passed out in the clinic for longer. Alistair would tell him if he could muster the energy and breath to ask.

“Well, that’s too long ago,” Alistair says before Hawke can respond. “I’ll order for us, you’ll eat, and maybe then we can talk. Or you can pass out again, I’m flexible.”

Hawke just grunts and closes his eyes. Alistair lays a hand on Hawke’s arm, and for a second Hawke doesn’t breathe, though the pain in his chest reminds him to keep it up before too long. Alistair’s hand pats him once then leaves to fish a phone out and place a phone call. Hawke doesn’t have to listen in to know where Alistair probably called or what he’s ordering. They hadn’t done a lot during the time they’d spent together, unless copious amounts of sex counts, but they had ordered a lot of takeout, their preferred kind being Ferelden comfort food. It’s kind of touching that Alistair remembers, after all these years, what Hawke used to order. Also a little weird, but Hawke’s feeling more inclined toward touching in his current hazy state.

He dozes, he must, because the next time he opens his eyes, Alistair is pulling boxes from a bag and rustling around for the plastic cutlery.

“I got lamb and pea stew,” he says, when he realizes Hawke is awake.

Or maybe Alistair doesn’t remember what he eats. “I’m not touching—”

“For me, and the roast for you. Though the stew really would be better for you. I’m going to have to cut your roast into little tiny pieces before you can eat it.” When he turns around, bearing a takeout box that Hawke can only assume is filled with tiny pieces of roast, Alistair doesn’t look directly at Hawke. His eyes drift somewhere over Hawke’s shoulder, and he hands the box over bashfully. Hawke takes the box with his right hand and looks from it up to Alistair. He clears his throat.

“I can’t eat this.”

Alistair startles. “Why not? Aren’t they small enough?” He peers into the box to confirm that he had, indeed, cut the pieces small enough. Hawke snorts.

“No fork. No hand,” he says, indicating his useless left arm with his takeout box.

“Oh. Right. Of course.” Alistair scuttles back to the counter to grab a fork from the pile he’d set there and returns, holding it out to Hawke before snatching it away. “Hang on,” he says, squishing himself between the bed and the wall to grab something on the floor. It turns out to be a lap desk that slots onto the bed above Hawke, and Alistair sets the fork on it with a flourish. He places Hawke’s water cup there too then sits down in his chair with a satisfied thump, dashing up immediately afterward to grab his own food from the counter. 

They don’t speak while they eat, just trade glances occasionally as Alistair slurps at his stew and Hawke carefully chews his roast. Now that his shoulder is relocated and causing less pain, he can feel more of the rest of his body. Like his ribs, that protest as he breathes, and his jaw, sore from the abuse it suffered. His face must look a fright, but he can see nothing in Alistair’s face to indicate how bad it is. He’ll have to find a mirror. 

“How are you feeling?” Alistair asks a few minutes after Hawke puts down his fork. Hawke shrugs his right shoulder, grimacing slightly at the sharp tug on his ribs.

“Be better if I could get this thing out,” he says, wiggling the fingers of his right hand to indicate the IV. Alistair chuckles.

“Right. I’ll have to ask Anders about that later. Anything else?”

“Drugs.”

“Oh! Yes, we have those, and I can give them to you.” Alistair jumps out of his chair, sweeping Hawke’s empty takeout box off his tray as he goes. “I am allowed to do that much.” Hawke watches Alistair poke through the cabinets and shakes his head.

“Tell me what you’re doing here.” Their eyes don’t meet as Alistair sets a couple pills on the tray before refilling Hawke’s water cup. “Alistair…”

“I’m running, OK?” Alistair strides to the far wall of the room, leans his head against it for a brief moment, and turns back to face Hawke.

“From what?” Hawke can’t imagine the Alistair he remembers having to run from anything. He’d been a charmingly awkward young man, always ready with a joke, typically at his own expense. Alistair had been a bright spot in the years between Malcolm’s death and the Hawke family’s move to Kirkwall. 

Alistair sighs, deflating onto the chair next to Hawke’s bed and rubbing a hand across his forehead. “I left the Wardens.”

“You _joined_ the Wardens?” is Hawke’s response, jerking toward Alistair in an abortive and years-too-late attempt to strangle some sense into him. He collapses back onto the bed with a groan as pain shoots through his shoulder and stomach, and Alistair half-rises from his chair, hands outstretched, before he clenches them and sits back down.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Hawke wheezes. 

“Well,” Alistair says, and Hawke can hear the false cheer in his voice that indicates he’s about to play something off as unimportant, “I joined the Wardens to get away from the Templars.”

“What the fuck,” Hawke whispers, closing his eyes and laying his head back. He’s itching to hit Alistair, to shake him and find out just what exactly could have persuaded him to do not one but _two_ incredibly stupid things. His whole body sings, both with pain and with barely suppressed anger. “How could you?”

“...I’m sorry about Carver.”

“Don’t you dare.” 

“I am. Sorry. They didn’t… I only heard about it third-hand back in Ferelden. I left shortly after that.”

Alistair falls silent, and Hawke focuses on keeping his breathing even. He hadn’t been prepared for this when he woke up to find Alistair. He’s not sure what he’d expected, after all these years, but somehow he just hadn’t thought Alistair would change. That of the two of them, angry at the world for betraying them in different ways, Alistair would be better for it eventually.

“And you joined the Wardens because..?” Hawke asks finally. He’s too tired to raise a hand to his head, physically and mentally, and he should probably pass out again, but he needs to know.

“Oh, well, that’s easy.” Again with the cheer. Hawke sighs and grimaces at the twinge in his ribs. “The Wardens were the only ones who could keep me away from the Templars.”

It makes sense in one of those any-choice-is-a-bad-choice ways, and Hawke finds he can’t fault Alistair for it. Not when he’s pretty sure joining the Wardens was a matter of Alistair’s life or death. The longer Hawke keeps his eyes closed, the closer he gets to actually falling asleep, but there’s one more thing…

“Why are you here?”

Alistair laughs, and Hawke can hear him scratch the back of his neck. “Well, Anders used to run with the Wardens too.” And there’s a revelation that Hawke hadn’t expected. “And he got out, he’s one of the only people to get out without dying, so I thought…” A pause which means Alistair probably shrugged. “I thought maybe he could help me.”

Hawke manages a grunt in response, and Alistair chuckles. “You should probably sleep. Rest is good, and all that.” He reaches out and lowers Hawke’s bed again then, cautiously, lays his hand on Hawke’s left shoulder. There’s no pressure behind it, so it doesn’t hurt, and Hawke finds himself falling asleep, dragged down by the warmth of Alistair’s hand.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Hawke spends a lot of the next day in and out of consciousness, resting like he’s supposed to. Alistair is always there when he wakes up, smiling sadly the couple times Hawke wakes with a cry, reaching for someone who isn’t there. He gets food for Hawke when he’s hungry and orders him to drink water the rest of the time. He doesn’t ask questions or pry, and they converse about a lot of nothing. At some point, Alistair changes his clothes, and Hawke realizes he has no idea what day it is. All he knows is he’s probably missed a couple days of work at this point and his phone is dead, so it’s a great relief when Anders bustles in and announces that he can leave, no really please get out. The doctor does a last few checks, writes some instructions and prescriptions, and hands all of that over to Alistair before rushing off.

“I’ll drive you home,” Alistair says, and Hawke is in no place to argue. The drive is quiet, save for Hawke giving directions and Alistair pointing out any dogs they pass. That, at least, Hawke is glad to see hasn’t changed about him. They pull up to Hawke’s house, and Alistair runs around the car to help Hawke out, which is both annoying and incredibly helpful, as Hawke’s ribs are not pleased at the twisting motion required of them. He pulls his keys out of his pocket and hands them to Alistair, cradling his left arm in his right as he straightens on the sidewalk.

It’s then that he looks toward his front door and sees the figure uncurling from the steps.

“Fenris?” He can’t breathe, and Alistair has to put a steadying hand to Hawke’s chest before he pitches forward. Fenris’s eyebrows are pinched tight, his mouth open, and he looks from Hawke to Alistair to the ground. 

“Hawke…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who shared their pain with me over the last couple chapters! I really love hearing about that (and anything, really!). I'm so glad you're all here and along for the ride with me. <3


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are a little awkward

“Fenris?” Alistair asks, smiling. “Oh, good. I guess that means I can just leave Garrett with you—”

“No.” Fenris and Hawke speak at the same time, not looking at each other. 

“OK,” Alistair says slowly. He jingles Hawke’s keys in his hands and makes the decision no one else seems able to. “Come on, then. You need to be inside, not standing in the street.” He throws the keys to Fenris, who catches them easily though he looks confused. “Open the door, make yourself useful.” Alistair shuts the car door behind Hawke and stands at his right side, carefully wrapping an arm around Hawke’s waist. Fenris watches for a moment, blinking, as Alistair slowly steers Hawke up the path. His eyes close for a moment, lips pressing together, then he turns, pulling the screen door open and unlocking the door. He holds both open, pressing himself back so the two larger men can get through. Hawke doesn’t look over at him.

“Alright, where’s your bedroom?” Alistair starts for the stairs, but Hawke resists, his breath hissing through his teeth as his ribs scream at him for twisting them.

“Couch,” he says, trying to pull Alistair that direction. “I don’t—I’d rather stay down here.”

Alistair purses his lips but doesn’t say anything, allowing Hawke to lead him toward the couch. He fusses about the lack of pillows and blankets, clucking like a mother hen as Hawke lays down with his head on one armrest. After making sure Hawke is in a comfortable position, he excuses himself upstairs to look for “proper bedding.” Fenris shifts on his feet, the door closed behind him. 

“I…” he starts but breaks off, his eyes darting up to Hawke’s face before settling on the feet hanging off the other side of the couch. “Isabela was worried when you didn’t show for work yesterday.”

“Isabela?” Hawke echoes. He’s never heard such a blatant cover-up in his life. He shakes his head. “Well, you can tell Isabela I’m fine.”

Alistair walks back down the stairs louder than necessary, drops a pile of bedding and pillows next to the couch, and makes a show of looking through Hawke’s cupboards and refrigerator instead of at Fenris and Hawke. “You haven’t changed, Garrett. Still can’t feed yourself, I see. I’m going to the store to stock you up, you need food with those painkillers, and don’t even think about arguing.” Hawke closes his mouth, looking surly. Anders had given him a dose of the good drugs before Hawke left the clinic, dulling the pain in his ribs and shoulder unless he does something extreme, like wiggle or twist or move for longer than a few minutes at a time. He does need something with them, though; Anders had been very insistent. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

Fenris steps out of his way as Alistair heads for the door and raises one eyebrow. He settles back into place as the door shuts behind Alistair, looking thoughtfully after him. “Who is that?” 

“Alistair.” Hawke places his right arm across his chest, as close to crossing his arms as he’s going to get for a few weeks. Dislocating a shoulder sucks, and he isn’t looking forward to the whole “keeping still” part of the healing journey. He sets his jaw and stares at Fenris, as if daring him to ask another question. Fenris nods to himself, expression contemplative.

“I am...glad for you, Hawke. You deserve to be happy.”

Fenris’s words spin around in Hawke’s head, and he closes his eyes as the world starts tipping around him. Must be the painkillers messing with him. He reaches out with his right hand for the coffee table, seeking something stable to ground him. Deserve to be…

“What the fuck are you talking about?” He slits open his eyes and watches Fenris stand there looking confused and uncomfortable, arms loose at his sides, feet scuffing at the floor.

“Forgive me, I… He is your lover, is he not?”

Hawke chokes on his next breath, groaning at the ache in his ribs, and places his hand back on his side, as if he can soothe his injury with a touch. Fenris, when Hawke looks at him again, has shifted a step closer to the couch, concern plain on his face.

“Ten years ago, sure.” Something relaxes in Fenris’s posture; Hawke can’t pinpoint exactly what, but he can read relief in the lines of his body. “Why do you care, anyway? You left me.” 

Fenris recoils as if hit, his left hand curling around his right wrist. “I—” Everything about him is tense, tightly coiled like a spring, any of the earlier loosening gone in an instant. He hunches over, as if to make himself smaller, and looks down at his hands. “I wished to protect you.”

Hawke laughs until his ribs send shooting pains through his whole chest, good to know that counts as extreme, he supposes, then keeps laughing. Tears leak out the corners of his eyes, born of hilarity and pain, and he closes his eyes against both. It’s not funny, he knows it isn’t, and he doesn’t feel amused, but… How exactly does hurting someone qualify as protection? He doesn’t know what else to do, and so he laughs until he’s afraid he might actually damage something inside, then finally begins to tone it down, taking deep breaths between bouts of laughter.

When he’s regained most of his composure, Hawke takes one final breath in, holding it for a few seconds before releasing. He blinks open his eyes and startles to see Fenris kneeling beside his legs, one hand outstretched toward his cracked ribs, a frown on his face.

“What happened?” Fernis asks softly. He lays his hand down on the couch next to Hawke without touching him.

Hawke can hear...something in his voice that makes part of him ache and wish he could pull Fenris up next to him, wrap his arms around him, and fall asleep with his face in that white hair like he used to. He shifts his eyes to look at the ceiling instead of Fenris. He can’t, he won’t cave that easily. Fenris sighs. A hand brushes lightly against Hawke’s thigh before alighting just above his knee, and Hawke’s heart constricts with the force of how much he does want to just forget everything that happened or find a way to move past it without having to bring it all up again. 

Damn it. He doesn’t know how, but Fenris is remarkably adept at circumnavigating his defenses, dancing around them as if they don’t exist, like they present no real obstacle to him. Hawke both hates the idea of opening up to Fenris now, after everything, and finds himself relieved that Fenris is here and asking. Maybe things aren’t so broken as he feared, maybe there’s a way to repair what happened. It’s the first bit of hope he’s felt in nearly two months, and he clings to it like a man about to drown.

“Bethany’s muggers,” he says finally, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Was walking home...a couple days ago? I don’t know. Jumped me in an alley and,” he gestures carefully to his face, shoulder, and chest, “well.” He tears his gaze away from the ceiling and looks at Fenris, whose face is an emotionless mask, though his eyebrows twitch.

“I hope you got _some_ hits in.”

Hawke snorts, raising an eyebrow at Fenris. “Busted a knee cap on one and the nose of another, one of ‘em’ll be pissing blood, so,” he shrugs his right shoulder, “I could have done worse.” Fenris’s lips jerk in an aborted smile.

“Barely.” He brushes his thumb back and forth against Hawke’s leg. “Were you at least massively outnumbered?”

And it’s easy, so easy to fall back into this, to speak to Fenris as if he hadn’t so recently walked out the door not ten feet away.

“Oh yeah, at least a dozen of them, all looking like Sten.”

A smile, however small, creeps up Fenris’s face. “Good. I should hate to die from secondhand embarrassment if you allowed any fewer to take you out.” He squeezes Hawke’s leg and stands up, returning a minute later with a glass of water and an ice pack from the freezer. In silence he hands the cup to Hawke and pulls the pillowcase off a pillow Alistair had brought downstairs to place between the ice pack and Hawke’s shoulder.

“Take a deep breath every so often,” he says, sitting down on the coffee table. “It will hurt, but it will ultimately help your ribs heal properly.” 

Hawke sips at his water. “This isn’t the first time this has happened to me, you know.”

Fenris clasps his hands and examines his knuckles. “But it is the first time that I have seen you truly hurt,” he tells the tattooed fingers, twisting his hands.

“You haven’t seen me the last month and a half,” Hawke scoffs. “This is nothing.” Fenris freezes, his hands perpendicular to each other, fingers still entangled. Hawke can see each muscle in Fenris’s body tense, as if preparing to run. He hadn’t meant to say that, hadn’t wanted to do anything to force Fenris away now that he was here, close, real.

“You are right. But I will not apologize for doing what I can to protect you.” At last Fenris’s eyes dash up to meet Hawke’s, the green burning with the quiet force of his words. Hawke looks away first.

“Protect me from what?” he mutters, hating that he sounds like a petulant child. There are only a few things in his life that haven’t ever made sense: Malcolm’s death, Carver’s death, and Fenris’s leaving. He feels he’s closing in on understanding Malcolm’s, at least, but that doesn’t make up for the confusion he feels thinking about Fenris. 

“I am...not a safe person to be around, Hawke.”

“Do I look like I care?”

Fenris jerks in a silent laugh, but his face is sober, his eyes lifting from Hawke’s and fixing somewhere in the middle distance.

“I do.”

Hawke’s eyes narrow, and he searches Fenris’s face and body language for signs of deception. Fenris spreads his arms, inviting the scrutiny, but drops them quickly when Alistair bustles through the door, laden with enough bags that it’s hard to make out his figure underneath them.

“Help!” he cries, as one of the bags slips from its perch atop several others and sets an avalanche in motion. Fenris is off the coffee table in a blink, reaching for the falling groceries. Between him and Alistair, they get everything into the kitchen and deposited unceremoniously on the island. 

“I really thought I could make it in one trip,” Alistair says, opening bags and sorting the food. Fenris watches for a moment before sighing and silently helping, ferrying the dried goods to a cabinet. Alistair opens the fridge and starts loading it with perishables, pulling out expired foods and anything that looks too much like a middle school science experiment.

“Garrett,” he scolds, “how do you live like this?”

Hawke shrugs in response, though he knows Alistair can’t see it. He closes his eyes, wedges his right hand under his thigh after setting his water glass on the coffee table, and listens to the sounds coming from the kitchen. He can imagine Fenris and Alistair as they move around, each hyper-aware of their space and dancing fluidly around each other when they cross paths. Well, Fenris would be fluid anyway. Alistair might jerk a lot, but he still understands space dynamics. They don’t speak, but Hawke can see in his mind’s eye how they might communicate with glances and hand gestures more effectively than words. It isn’t long before he falls asleep.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“Can you cook?” Alistair asks, once the groceries are put away and the disgusting remnants from Hawke’s fridge tossed in the garbage. “I only ask because, well, I can,” and he drags the word out long enough that Fenris doubts this man’s ability to boil water, “but Garrett never really liked the few things I know how to make.”

Fenris blinks at him for a minute. “I can cook,” he says finally, once Alistair has started to twitch.

“Oh good. I was kind of hoping you might be able to, which is why I got all this food, you see.”

Fenris raises an eyebrow. “You bought food... _hoping_ that _I_ could cook.” Alistair rubs a hand across the back of his neck and looks sheepish. Fenris palms his forehead and sighs. “Both of you are hopeless. Now get out of the kitchen.”

Alistair gleefully complies, though he resists the urge to clap his hands together, and heads off to check on Hawke. A sleeping Hawke, as it turns out, and he smiles. Good. He’s always preferred Hawke like this, not in any sort of weird or creepy way, but just because when he’s asleep, he’s at peace. They might not have seen each other in nearly a decade, but that still matters to him. He pulls a blanket from the floor, flapping it quietly to straighten it out before laying it across Hawke’s body. He grabs the ice pack off Hawke’s shoulder, too, then stands there for a moment longer, just looking at him. His hand stretches out, and it’s a near thing, almost reaching to caress Hawke’s face, but he catches himself and instead settles his hand on Hawke’s shoulder. It has, after all, been ten years.

Fenris pretends he wasn’t watching when Alistair takes a seat at the island after tossing the ice pack back in the freezer. 

They remain silent, lost in their own heads, Fenris moving around the kitchen as he figures out exactly what to make from the disparate ingredients Alistair bought, Alistair scrolling through his phone and glancing occasionally toward Fenris or Hawke. He’s not sure what to make of the situation between them. Anders had obviously thought Fenris would be a good person to look after Hawke in his convalescence, but the way both of them had acted at first, it was like they were strangers. Anders wouldn’t suggest that unless he didn’t know that something had happened. 

Alistair studies Fenris surreptitiously, watches the tense way he moves about the kitchen, contrasts that with the way he obviously already knows where everything is. Though Fenris’s movements are sure, there is a stiffness to them, and Alistair frowns.

“How long has it been?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Fenris half turns to look over his shoulder at Alistair.

“I said, how long has it been? You and Garrett. Obviously there was a you and Garrett, and I’m just wondering how long it’s been since you broke up. That’s all.”

Fenris turns back to the stove and pokes at something in a skillet with a spoon. “What business is it of yours?”

“None, actually, I suppose. I just thought you might like to talk about it. Garrett isn’t very good at talking, especially not after anything bad happens. Unless you don’t want to talk about it. That’s alright, too. I’m sure you have other friends you talk to.”

Fenris just grunts and stirs something in another pot. Neither of them speak until the food is done and Fenris has plated three servings, though he covers the third with tin foil and sets it aside. Alistair considers his food carefully, sticking his face down close to the plate. Pasta and chunks of meat in a light sauce atop a bed of broccoli. It smells heavenly.

“You can cook!”

“It is almost as though I did not lie to you when I said I could,” Fenris responds, though he sounds more amused than annoyed. Still a little annoyed, though. As Alistair tucks in, Fenris scoops the rest of the food into plastic containers and starts to rinse the pots.

“Stop doing that.”

“Stop doing what?”

“Cleaning up.” Alistair taps his fork against his plate. “I’ll take care of it when we’ve finished eating.”

Fenris finishes filling the last pot with water anyway and nods to Alistair. “Thank you.”

“‘S’not a problem. Least I can do, really: this stuff is amazing.” Fenris chuckles and lifts his fork in a salute. They eat, and Alistair watches as some of the tension leaves Fenris’s body. Not all of it, sure, but he’s pretty sure at this point that Fenris lives his life in some state of constant tension. The posture Fenris adopts, leaning against the island as he eats, is a calculated one, meant to imitate relaxation without any of the negative consequences, like being unable to run because your body isn’t positioned for it or unable to fight because you’ve let a limb grow numb.

“Nearly seven weeks.” Fenris picks at the last bits of food on his plate, staring at that and not Alistair, who purses his lips and nods.

“Who broke it off? You don’t have to answer, of course, I just—”

“I did.”

“Do you...regret it?”

Silence as Fenris frowns, his fork stilling. Finally he sets the utensil down and cups his cheek, looking up at Alistair. “I don’t know.”

“That’s fair. Seems like a complicated situation from what I’ve seen. I’m sorry.” Alistair watches as Fenris’s eyebrows draw together, his face the image of perfect confusion, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. 

“Right, sorry, would you rather I yell at you about breaking Garrett’s heart and how cruel you are for doing something that’s probably good for you? Because I could, if you’d like. I’m sure I could muster up some righteous indignation.”

Fenris clears his throat but smiles slightly. “That won’t be necessary. Though I appreciate the offer.” 

“I could, alternately,” Alistair continues, “rail about something stupid Garrett did? I’ve got some experience with that; just point me in a direction.” He grins, but the look on Fenris’s face, for the split second it’s there, says everything before Fenris shuts it down into something more neutral.

“What did he do?”

“It is nothing.”

“No, it’s not. D’you want me to talk to him?”

Fenris bares his teeth. “I will fight my own battles!”

Alistair holds up his hands. “Alright, alright. Are you gonna finish that, or can I start the dishes now?”

The last bits of food disappear into Fenris’s mouth, but the actions look wooden and hollow. Alistair smiles lopsidedly and whisks their plates off the island to pile them in the sink. He stoppers the drain, pours in what seems like a reasonable amount of dish soap, and turns the water on. When he looks around as the sink fills, he finds Fenris has traded him places and is seated at the island. Looking mildly uncomfortable, too. He can see Fenris’s eyes dart toward the couch and the door before coming back to the kitchen.

“You don’t have to stay, you know.” He turns back to the sink, switching the water off and plunging his arms in. “If this isn’t something you can handle, I don’t blame you. Being his ex while there’s another ex in the house would be enough without adding whatever you’ve been through on top of it.”

He washes the spoons and silverware first, piling the sudsy things in the other side of the sink as he goes. Behind him, Fenris is so silent that Alistair nearly forgets he’s there until he rinses the utensils and Fenris is beside him, holding a towel. Alistair shrugs and goes back to washing, letting Fenris dry and pile things on the counter to be put away. Between the two of them, they make short work of the dishes, and Alistair runs the rag over the counters and island when they’re done. Fenris slips the plate with Hawke’s food on it into the refrigerator. Neither of them want to wake him, no matter how much he needs the food. It will still be there later.

“How long will you be here?” Fenris asks, as they both stand in the kitchen, looking over at the couch.

“Until he wakes, at least. I’ll make sure he eats, get him to ice the shoulder again. It’ll be hell, though, trying to keep him from going to work for the next week or two, at least. He always was a stubborn bastard.”

Fenris hums his agreement. “I will speak with Varric about that. I am not sure what else I can do.”

“Come over and cook again. No, seriously. In a day or two, he’ll be out of those leftovers.” Alistair looks at Fenris and the conflicted expression on his face. “If you give me your number, I can text you when he’s asleep. If...you think that would help.”

A pause, then a sigh and Fenris holds out his hand. Alistair gives him his phone. “I wanted to hate you,” Fenris says as he adds his contact information.

“Aw, but you fell prey to my charms instead?”

“Don’t push it.” Fenris hits Alistair’s hand with the phone before giving it back. On his way out, he pauses with his hand on the door and looks back at Alistair. “Take care of him. Please.”

“I will,” Alistair promises, crossing his heart. Fenris’s lips jump in a small, half smile and then he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are amazing! Thank you for all your comments and encouraging words!! From the bottom of my heart, it means so much to me that you're all here on this crazy ride.
> 
> If you want to yell or scream at me about characters and headcanons and other fun stuff, I can be found on [tumblr](http://stitchcasual.tumblr.com) by the same name. I post a bunch of random fandoms, as well as a few drabbles recently that aren't yet on AO3. It's a good time!


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I looked to heaven, and tried to pray,  
> But or ever a prayer had gusht,  
> A wicked whisper came, and made  
> My heart as dry as dust."  
> \- Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! My apologies for the delay on the chapter. I hope it's worth it :)
> 
> Music rec: ["Roots"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e4RMh7NLHPY) by Imagine Dragons

Hawke spends a lot of time sleeping over the next week, drifting in and out of consciousness on the couch. Alistair helps him up the stairs to shower a few times, always averting his eyes and pulling the shower curtain closed tight, though he stays within the bathroom just in case Hawke falls or needs assistance. It breaks his heart a little, the first time he’s in the house during one of Hawke’s nightmares and learns that his sleep is no longer a peaceful thing. Hawke never shares the contents of the dreams, just ignores Alistair when he asks or gives a vague answer and changes the subject. 

There’s one day that Hawke wakes from a particularly vivid dream of Fenris dancing around his kitchen, convinced that Fenris has to be around somewhere. Nothing Alistair says prevents Hawke from searching the entire house, so he pulls some food out of the fridge and microwaves it while Hawke searches, waving him over to the island when he finally comes down the stairs again, scowling.

“What is this?” Hawke turns his scowl on the plate, pushing it with his finger though he sits down anyway.

“Lunch! Or dinner, I suppose. Technically, with the time, but it’s only your second meal of the day, so…” Alistair shrugs. Hawke shrugs back and starts eating. He’s learned that Alistair won’t shut up about him eating until he does so, and since Alistair can get a little annoying if all he does is talk...it just makes it easier on everyone for Hawke to eat when he’s told to. But after a few mouthfuls, he stops and looks up, glaring at Alistair and pointing his fork accusingly.

“You didn’t make this.”

“What? That’s preposterous.” Alistair laughs. “If I didn’t, who did?” He rubs the back of his neck and looks away. Hawke’s eyes narrow. He stabs the food with more force than necessary and keeps eating, though he glares up at Alistair occasionally. Alistair slowly turns and begins filling the sink to do the dishes, letting out a long breath.

Hawke retreats to the couch again after he’s finished, leaving his plate on the island for Alistair to rescue later.

The tail end of February sees more guests in Hawke’s house than he’s pretty sure it’s ever had before. Varric shows up one afternoon and sits on the coffee table while he tells Hawke all about how The Hanged Man is doing. Turns out that guy Hawke met at Varric’s New Years party, Bull, is filling in for Hawke while he’s out. 

“No fewer than six weeks, Hawke,” Varric says when Hawke questions him about how long Bull will be staying in his position. “I know how long it takes injuries like you’ve got to heal. I can’t let you come back to work and fuck things up for yourself.” Hawke grumbles and frowns at Varric but the little man won’t be swayed.

“Look, if you re-injure yourself at work, that’s gonna be a mountain of paperwork I gotta sort through.” 

They talk about other things after that, how the library is finally putting in a climbing tree like Varric asked after that memorable day where the children swarmed up Hawke and how the weekly card games have been going. Varric doesn’t mention specifically, but Hawke gets the impression that Fenris has continued to attend. He’s not sure how he feels about that, happy, on the one hand, that Fenris is enjoying the company of their friends, disquieted, on the other hand, that Fenris obviously doesn’t want to be in _his_ company. It had seemed like maybe they were getting somewhere that day Fenris was over, but perhaps that had all been a willful delusion of Hawke’s.

Isabela and Zevran come over and spend two hours telling nonstop bawdy jokes. Alistair excuses himself after the first few, his face a deep shade of pink, much to Isabela’s delight. Hawke tolerates their presence, and they in turn aren’t offended when he closes his eyes and dozes. They just break off to kiss and cuddle and resume the jokes when Hawke stirs.

Merrill brings him flowers from the shop to brighten up his house. Hawke has never been much of a plant person, but Alistair waters them when he comes over, and they last a few weeks under his tender care.

“I wasn’t sure if you would want to know or not,” Merrill says as she’s leaving. “But I’ve been selling the sex tea at the shop. Way in the back on a high shelf so that only adults can find it, or really tall children, I suppose. It’s quite popular. Isabela gave it a really pretty name, The Unfolding Petal? No, that’s not it. The Blossoming Garden? Oh bother, I do wish I could remember, it’s really a rather lovely name.” 

Aveline just berates him for not coming to the station and giving a statement so they can get sketches and have officers on the lookout, but she gives up three-quarters of the way through her planned speech and instead microwaves him a can of soup she brought and they watch TV until she has to be back on duty.

Hawke tells himself that he appreciates his friends coming by and checking on him. He really tries to tell himself that. But the longer he sits at home with absolutely nothing to do, the more stir-crazy he gets. He was never meant to be still for long periods of time, and having a limited number of things he can do without pain somewhere is killing him. He takes deep breaths whenever he remembers to, the thought of Fenris giving him that advice stinging in equal measure to his chest when he breathes in.

Alistair gets the worst of it, when he’s around, simply for being the only living being within Hawke’s radius. He stands, face calm, when Hawke yells about not being allowed to go on with his life and being put under house arrest. He merely blinks when Hawke rants about how joining the Wardens _and_ the Templars was a monumentally stupid thing to do. He lets Hawke have it out then orders him to eat, or drink more water, or take a nap. Hawke obeys, he always does, and afterward quiets down for a while, though his underlying anxiety never goes away.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

A door shuts in his dream, and he knows he’s dreaming now because Fenris is here again, dressed all in black. Hawke spends an eternity following after him, calling out for him to wait, to let him catch up, but Fenris walks always ahead of him, never stopping or slowing. He speaks occasionally, soft and low, and Hawke can’t quite make out the words. He struggles to catch up, running, sprinting, always just behind Fenris no matter how fast he goes.

Finally he gives up and bends over, hands on his knees, heaving great breaths. At least his ribs don’t hurt in this dream. When he looks up, Fenris is gone. Hawke sinks to the ground and grips his head in his hands. If he can’t even get Fenris’s attention in a _dream_ , then what hope does he have of ever getting him back when he’s awake?

He lays down, spreading his limbs out like a giant starfish, and closes his eyes. If he listens carefully, he can still hear Fenris’s voice. It’s better than nothing. Slowly as he listens, he rises back to consciousness, blinking his eyes to clear them. Alistair is muttering to himself in the kitchen, and Hawke can hear a pan clatter lightly against the sink and the water start to run. The water shuts off and Alistair laughs softly, then Fenris’s voice rumbles something and they both chuckle.

Hawke closes his eyes again. “Coward.”

The voices in the kitchen fall silent. “Hawke?” Alistair asks.

“I said, you’re a coward, Fenris.” Hawke shoves himself into a sitting position with his right arm and looks over the back of the couch toward the kitchen. Alistair and Fenris stand there, looking for all the world like a pair of deer caught in the headlights. Alistair coughs, rubs the back of his neck, and looks at Fenris. Fenris sighs and drops his gaze to the floor before raising his head to stare directly back at Hawke.

“Have a care how you speak, Hawke.”

“Care? How’s this for care? You dump me, refuse to let me help you fight whatever you dumped me about, then sneak over to my house anyway to cook for me with my other ex-boyfriend. Are you confused on how this whole ex relationship is supposed to work?” Hawke inches his way down the couch until he can lever himself onto the arm. It’s a better position to engage with Fenris in.

Fenris frowns. “You think you mean so little to me that I would abandon you completely?” He sounds honestly bewildered that it catches Hawke a little off guard for a moment. 

Hawke spreads wide his right arm, moving his left in a smaller but similar gesture. “Yes?” he says. “What else am I supposed to think? I obviously don’t mean enough to you; if you truly cared about me, you wouldn’t have left me!”

Fenris’s nostrils flare, his eyes widening in what looks like a mixture of surprise and anger. “You sound just like Dan,” he says, his voice brittle, face thunderous. His fists clench at his sides. “You swing your words now as you did the day I left, without a care how they hit. What a fool I was to believe you might be different, that with you I might—Yet you speak to me now as if I do not know my own mind, as if I do not understand the consequences of my own actions. I do not exist solely in relation to you, Hawke, my actions to be defined by you. I am my own man, and I will not tolerate abuses by you, or him, or anyone.”

He stalks to the door, jerking it open, and pauses with the wood of the door between him and Hawke. “I apologize, Alistair. Goodbye.”

Hawke stares at the door as it closes behind Fenris, eyebrows drawn together. “The fuck?” he asks quietly, sinking from the arm of the couch back onto the cushion.

“Oh, I get it now,” Alistair says from the kitchen, holding his chin thoughtfully. “That’s what you did. Garrett, you are an absolute Maker-born idiot.”

“The fuck did I do?”

Alistair sighs, puts something away in the fridge, and comes to sit on the other end of the couch, facing Hawke. “Well,” he says, dragging out the word, “I’m just guessing here, based on the available evidence—”

“Get on with it,” Hawke growls, swinging his legs up onto the coffee table.

“Well, you kind of used abusive language toward someone who’s been a victim of that in the past.”

Hawke doesn’t speak right away, struck by the enormity of those words. It wasn’t something he’d really thought about, though Fenris had spoken on a few occasions about his relationship with Dan. He had just foolishly assumed that because Fenris went to therapy, that things were OK. Sure, there had been a couple times where Hawke said something stupid, not thinking, but those moments had always passed quickly, things returning to normal.

“Shit.” He’d gone and fucked up good this time. “Shit.”

“That’s the spirit.” Alistair offers him a wry smile. “Now, what possessed you in the first place to say something like that?”

Hawke leans his head back against the couch, closing his eyes. His right hand raises up in the air and flops back down onto the cushion. “I don’t know, I wasn’t thinking.”

“That’s rather obvious. Did I mention that you’re an idiot?”

Hawke rolls his head to glare at Alistair but sighs, softening the expression. “I suppose being angry and hurt is no excuse.”

“Mm, ‘fraid not,” Alistair says and reaches across the couch to pat Hawke’s hand awkwardly. 

“But I _am_ angry and hurt!” Hawke huffs, folding his right arm across his chest.

“And that’s a perfectly reasonable thing to be,” Alistair accedes, “but it doesn’t give you the right to turn around and hurt someone else.”

Hawke hums and they sit there quietly for a while, Hawke picking at a seam in his shirt, Alistair tapping his fingers against his knees. Finally Alistair gets up, patting Hawke on his uninjured shoulder, and heads back toward the kitchen.

“Alistair?”

“Mm?” he asks, turning back to Hawke.

Hawke remains where he is, staring straight ahead at nothing. “I can’t lose him, not completely. I...I can’t. I…”

“I understand, Garrett. I’m not sure if I’m the right man to judge, but I don’t think he’s lost to you. Not yet. But…” 

“But what?”

“It will probably require some world-class groveling. As a start.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Hawke doesn’t text Fenris. Or call. Or send smoke signals. He means to, he really does, but every time he looks at his phone and swipes to unlock the screen, he hesitates, his finger hovering over the messenging icon. In the end, he always switches the screen back off and sets the phone aside. Alistair gives him a knowing look every time he’s over, less and less these days as Hawke heals, but he doesn’t say anything. Fenris doesn’t come back over to cook; it’s easy to tell because suddenly the meals switch from home-cooked to take-out and frozen pizza. Hawke doesn’t mind, but he does miss Fenris’s food.

He doesn’t know what he would say to Fenris anyway, if he ever gets up the gumption to reach out. _Hey I’m sorry I was accidentally a dick but that’s just who I am?_ That wouldn’t fly. That doesn’t even cover half of what he feels, though he’s not sure how to go about finding words for the rest. 

He paces around his house as soon as he feels able to move that much, wearing himself out within half an hour and resting on the couch for a while before getting up and doing it again. He’s not sure if it’s good for him to be doing this, but he also finds he doesn’t really care. He’ll care later if he re-injures something, but for now he just concentrates on stopping his movements if his chest starts to hurt again. It’s better than sitting on his ass all day, in any case.

At least when he’s moving, his thoughts fade into the background, no longer crowding the forefront of his mind, demanding attention. Thoughts of Fenris sitting at this kitchen island, scowling at his ice cream. Thoughts of Fenris curled above him, taking his time teasing Hawke open, savoring each whine and moan with a wicked glint in his eyes. Thoughts of Fenris sprawled across the armchair in his mansion, feet dangling over one arm, one hand holding a book open, the other resting on Hawke’s head as he lay on the couch. Thoughts of Fenris puttering around his kitchen, shooing Hawke out with a fond smile as he got in the way again.

He misses Fenris something fierce. It burns inside him, fueling his pacing, but what hurts even more is the thought that Fenris is better off without him. As much as Hawke needs Fenris, as much as having him in his life has made the last half a year so much better, he’s realizing that maybe Fenris doesn’t need him. That maybe Fenris should live his life without Hawke there, fucking things up by saying stupid shit all the time. Perhaps it would be best to let him go.

A month after his injury, Hawke heads to The Hanged Man. As a patron, infuriatingly, but he revels in being able to walk there, unhindered, for the most part, by twinges in his shoulder or side. His ribs are healing well, or they feel like they are, anyway. He’s not keen on going back to Anders for a re-evaluation, but they don’t hurt much when he pokes at them and breathing in deep only results in a mild ache that disappears quickly. All in all, he thinks he’s doing well. His shoulder is still stiff, though, and doesn’t move well. He keeps his arm close by his side, often crossing his forearm over his stomach as though he had the arm in a sling. It feels better that way.

It’s a Wednesday evening, early still, close to the beginning of his—no, Bull’s—shift. Sten grunts at him at the door, and they rap knuckles before Hawke heads inside. The bar looks the same, all tarnished wood and low lights. Isabela comes running out from behind the bar to fling herself into his arms, kissing him on both cheeks. Hawke wraps one arm around her, grimacing at the shock to his left shoulder, and sets her back down on the floor as quickly as he can.

“I knew you’d come!” she cries happily, twirling in front of him. “You owe me $20!” This last is said over her shoulder to Zevran, who pouts as he leans against the bar.

“You made bets on whether or not I’d come?” Hawke asks, wondering if he should feel indignant about that.

Isabela snorts like he’s made a joke. “Well of course, sweet thing. We _always_ bet, and I _always_ win.”

“Only because it is in my best interest to let you win, sometimes,” Zevran says, winking.

“What? Name one time!” Isabela rounds back to the bar to face off against Zevran. They stand, hands on their hips, each of them smirking as if they have the upper hand.

“Any time we play strip Wicked Grace.”

Isabela tilts her head, confused. “But if I win, you end up naked.”

Zevran’s smile widens. “Naturally. As do you, not long after.”

Hawke groans, hitting his forehead with his hand. “Is Varric in the office?” he asks, hoping to avoid the conversation if it goes much further.

“Yeah, he’s in there,” Bull says, approaching from the floor. “Want me to get him for you?” He looks the same as he did over New Years, though he’s sporting an eyepatch across that scar over his eye that’s decorated in a lurid St. Patrick’s Day display. He laughs, catching Hawke staring at it. “You like it? I thought it was nice and festive.”

“It certainly is that.” Hawke shakes his head. “I’ll go see him myself; I’d rather talk in there.”

Bull shrugs and takes a seat at the bar. “Suit yourself. But you’re not getting your job back. Yet.”

Hawke’s eyes narrow, but there’s no sign of a threat from Bull, just a statement of fact, and he turns and heads back to the office. He knocks once on the door jamb and enters since the door’s halfway open already. 

“Hawke!” Varric says, without turning around. “I wondered when you’d stop by. Have a seat, I’ve got to finish this real quick…”

Hawke sits in the chair next to the desk, slouching down and resting one ankle on his other knee. He watches Varric for a little while, furiously slashing at the keys on his laptop. Probably a new story; he doesn’t write like that when it’s work related. Work emails drag out of him and he welcomes the distraction of Hawke barging in with something, anything, to derail him. His stories though? Those he takes seriously. More often than not, he’s writing for the children, coming up with new and more inventive fairy tales to tell them, rather than repeat the same old yarns they’ve already heard from parents and relatives. Hawke doesn’t know how much the children appreciate the amount of effort Varric puts into the stories, but it never ceases to please Varric, and Hawke supposes that’s what really counts.

Finally Varric stops typing, clicking the ‘save’ button before minimizing the window. He turns and steeples his fingers, elbows resting at the arms of his chair.

“So, what can I do for you?”

It takes a moment for Hawke to answer. He’s unaccustomed to being in this position and it shows in the nervous jerking of his knee and the way he twists one hand against his thigh. “I need something to do, Varric.”

“By that I assume you mean something other than make sure you’re healing properly.”

“I’ll do anything,” Hawke continues, attempting to ignore Varric’s snarky comment. “I can’t be in the house all damn day; I’m going out of my mind.”

Varric regards Hawke thoughtfully, tapping a finger to his chin. “You know I can’t give your job back yet.”

“I know, but that doesn’t matter,” Hawke lies. He desperately wants his job back, misses everything about it: talking with Isabela and Zevran, patrolling the floor, breaking up fights, and tossing unruly patrons. Sitting and talking with Fenris. It’s a job he was born to do and one he’s exceptionally good at, or would be, if he weren’t coming back from an injury.

“Honestly, I’ll...I’ll do the fucking books, I don’t care. I just need to do something.”

They’re both quiet for a minute, staring at each other. Varric spins his chair and riffles through some of the papers stacked there.

“That’s not a full-time job,” he says, not looking up. Hawke sighs but doesn’t otherwise respond, just clenches his right hand into a fist on his leg. He knows it’s not, he’s done enough of Varric’s job over the years to know what’s involved in what he’s asking. Doing the books takes a couple days a week, a few hours a day. A little longer during tax season and at the end of the fiscal year, but neither of those are close. He would just be running the daily numbers, making sure everything tallied up properly and sending and receiving invoices for payment. Nothing to punch or browbeat into submission. All in all, a job completely opposite of the one he wants to be doing, and Varric knows it.

“Alright, fine, you wanna do the books, you can do the books.” Varric waves the paper he’d been looking for and hands it to Hawke. “Just a formality, stating your temporary leave of absence from normal duties and The Hanged Man’s intention of reinstating you once a doctor has cleared you for active duty.”

Hawke scans the paper, and damn if Varric wasn’t thorough, outlining just what Hawke is unable to do during this leave, and scowls. He grabs the pen Varric hands him and signs, nearly tearing the paper with the force of his scrawl. 

“Excellent!” Varric rubs his hands together and sweeps the page over into another stack on the desk. He pulls another laptop out from a drawer in the desk, hands it to Hawke, and points at a stack of receipts and invoices. “Get to work!”

It’s not glamorous, but Hawke is happy. Well, happier than he’s been in a while, anyway. He sets up the computer at a booth close to the office, within eyeshot of Isabela and Bull, and begins. Isabela brings him his usual non-alcoholic drink, and he smiles at her. It’s comforting being back at The Hanged Man, somewhere he’s intimately familiar with but that isn’t home, hearing the vague chatter of the few patrons scattered about, drinking the same thing he’s had nearly every night for years now. He relaxes into it and finds that all too soon he’s finished with the work Varric had given him, even operating with one and a half arms as he is. 

“Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Hawke,” Varric tells him when he returns to the office. “Six is good. You’re gonna let me go home early. A guy could get used to this.” He grins.

Hawke snorts and hands over the laptop. “Then hire yourself a real accountant. You’ll be back to regular hours in a few weeks.”

“There you go, spoiling all my fun. Get outta here. Go rain on someone else’s parade.” He shoos Hawke toward the door, still grinning.

Hawke spends another hour or two sitting at the bar and chatting with Isabela and Bull, Zevran having gone home for the night. He’s not entirely comfortable with the way Bull has of looking at him like he can see right through any face Hawke puts up, but Isabela, at least, is the same as she’s always been, cracking inappropriate jokes and thinly veiled innuendos. Bull encourages her, Maker help him, and they both cackle delightedly at particularly good, or bad, ones.

At 10:30, Hawke bows out, saying he needs to get back home and sleep. Isabela gives him a smile that says she knows he’s trying not to run into Fenris, and Bull just gives him one of those piercing looks. Varric comes out from the office to drive him home, refusing to let Hawke walk, “considering what happened last time.” Hawke gives up. After all, Bull and Sten could probably overpower him pretty easily, even if he was at full strength, and wrestle him into the car anyway.

It fills something missing inside him, to be back at The Hanged Man three days a week. Work has always been a big part of his life, and being forced to miss it really hasn’t helped anything over the last month. The days he isn’t at work are still difficult to handle, wandering around the house for hours, but at least he has something to look forward to, a little bright spot to his weeks. It gives him the energy and motivation to finally call his bank about his missing credit cards and to wait in line at the DMV for a new license. He can’t replace everything that had been in his wallet, like the picture of Bethany and Carver from their thirteenth birthday that no one knew was in there, but he’ll find something to take its place. He has a few pictures left, somewhere in his house, probably in a box under his bed, and he’ll take a look through them here soon. It’s not the most important thing in his wallet, but it’s really close.

By Wednesday of the next week, he’s already developed a routine, coming into The Hanged Man promptly at 6:00 pm like he used to, gathering the laptop and associated documents, and spreading out across the closest booth to the office. He’s done by 8:00 or 9:00, spends an hour or two with Bull and Isabela or Zevran, and then Varric drives him home. He hasn’t seen Fenris since the man walked out of his house a couple weeks ago. If he’s been to The Hanged Man, it isn’t while Hawke’s around.

“Good evening.”

Truth be told, Hawke hadn’t expected to hear Fenris’s voice anytime soon. He’d assumed he would continue to do the ships in the night thing, always sneaking out before Fenris came in. He _definitely_ hadn’t expected to hear that voice so close by. He looks up, curious, leaving a finger on the invoice he’s inputting so he doesn’t lose his spot.

Fenris is right there. Standing next to his table, two drinks in hand. He looks a little awkward, his eyes dancing anywhere but near Hawke’s, one foot scuffing lightly at the floor.

“I thought...you might need a refill.” He raises the drink in his left hand slightly then sets it down on the table next to Hawke, who glances at the glass then back up at Fenris.

“You? Not Isabela?”

“Not Isabela.” Fenris’s lips twitch slightly, and Hawke relaxes back against the booth. Somehow the knowledge that Fenris, of his own volition, wanted to bring Hawke a drink means more than anything else then. He gestures to the bench across from him, expecting Fenris to demur and return to the bar with Isabela and Bull, but Fenris nods and slides in. He pulls his phone out and gestures to Hawke’s work. 

“Don’t let me keep you.”

Hawke grabs his drink, setting it on the other side of his laptop next to the nearly empty one, and picks up where he’d left off with that invoice. Turns out Fenris is excellent company when you’re looking to have silence and not talk to anyone. He understands that Hawke is working and buries his nose in his phone; he’d always known when and how to let Hawke work and when he could steal a few moments for himself. It’s appreciated, and Hawke finds himself smiling absently as he flips the invoice over and starts on the next one. There’s nothing in the way of him and Fenris just being friends, he figures, even if they’ll never get back to what they were.

When he’s done, Hawke shuts the laptop and looks over at Fenris, swirling his drink. “How...have you been?” he asks, cautious, not sure where the line is between too familiar and too distant.

Fenris raises his eyes from his phone, his eyebrows furrowing in a slight frown. “I…” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “Well enough. We, uh, there is a new client at work…” And after a few halting phrases, Fenris loosens up a little, leaning into the story with more gusto. Hawke cups his chin in his hand and nods in the right places, letting out a loud bark of laughter at the conclusion. Fenris flushes lightly as he chuckles, eyes cast down and away.

It’s a start, Hawke thinks, as he excuses himself to go talk to Varric. There’s still a hesitancy to Fenris that hadn’t existed several months ago, though, and his eyes don’t soften the same way they used to when gazing at Hawke. That’s to be expected. Tonight didn’t fix anything, not really, but he’s happy to enjoy Fenris’s company again. And happy that Fenris is amenable to sharing his. Maybe Alistair was right. Maybe Fenris isn’t completely lost to him yet.

That world-class groveling is still on his to-do list, though.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

On days off, Hawke continues to read in the journals his father left. They still haven’t gone as far as he’d like, though one passage leaves him with chills running down his spine:

_There’s a Tevinter connection, I’m sure of it. It’s small, perhaps one thread among many, but I can feel the weight it carries like I can feel the current of a river when I submerge my hand. Perhaps he is Tevinter himself. Perhaps the Tevinter senate backs his endeavors, a sinister thought. I may be considered a conspiracy theorist for this, but my intuition tells me to look into it further. How to go about obtaining documents from the Imperium though…_

Anything that concerns Tevinter leaves him cold these days. His care meter about the other country had been at about zero before Fenris entered his life, but after the tales he’s heard, he doesn’t look upon anyone there, especially in the senate, with any particular favor.

He taps a finger against his lower lip, thinking. Assuming his father was right about a Tevinter connection, there is no way Hawke can get at that information without assistance. Fenris had cut all ties with the nation and wouldn’t be eager to create them again, just for the sake of satisfying Hawke’s curiosity about his father’s murder, and Hawke would never seriously consider asking it of him. The Inquisitors, Trevelyan and Dorian, might have information on it, but with the talking-to he’d had when he saw them last, the chances of them helping were precisely none. They may even go so far as to attempt to bring obstruction charges against him for violating their order against further investigation. He can only think of one alternate, and it burns him to even consider it. But in the end, what else can he do?

He shrugs into a jacket, leaving his left arm out of the sleeve and zippering it to keep warm. It's one of those real cold spring days, the ones people say are the prelude to a warm summer. Hawke doesn't know about all that, but he wouldn't mind some warmth soon. The cold reminds him of Ferelden, and with all the reading he's doing in his father's journals, it's doing a number on his mind. Best to leave all of it in the past as soon as he can or he’ll end up an emotional wreck.

He pulls the hood up, shoves his right hand in his pocket, and walks. At least the sun is shining, which makes the cold more bearable. He rotates his left shoulder a little as he walks, frowning at how sore and stiff it still feels. Probably should have been working on it for the last week or two, starting to move it so he can actually get full strength and range of motion back. Hopefully it’s not too late. He could always go back and see Anders, but that would require seeing the clinic doctor again, and Hawke would be a happy man if he didn’t have to do that again.

Jogging down a set of stairs, Hawke takes a minute to check around him before moving on, both to familiarize himself with the surroundings and keep an eye out for tails. It might be paranoid, but he’s not anxious to repeat the incident with Bethany’s muggers any time soon with another group of lowlifes. He walks for a good forty-five minutes before he reaches his destination and climbs a set of stairs inside the building to the second floor apartments. Leaning casually against the door jamb, he pounds his fist against the wood a few times. It’s a gamble, hoping that he’ll be home, but it pays off as the door opens, and Hawke grins down into terrified blue eyes. 

Karl raises his hands and backs away from the door, but Hawke laughs, not moving from his spot against the door.

“I’m not here to kill you. I need you.”

At Karl’s questioning look, Hawke moves into the apartment, nudging the door closed with his foot. He stays just on the threshold, not coming farther, and bares his teeth.

“Take me to the Templars.”


	29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke makes progress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't been commenting back on everyone's comments like I usually do but please know that I read and love and treasure every one of them so thank you all so much! You're incredible! 
> 
> Music rec: "Reminders" by Radical Face

Karl stares at him, jerking once as if to obey, then stands still, six feet into his apartment. He tilts his head, looking intently at Hawke and his arm. 

“Oh,” he says, shaking his head.

Hawke narrows his eyes and straightens his shoulders, taking a step forward. Karl backs up a half step before summoning courage from somewhere and stopping. He points at Hawke.

“Oo ah,” he says and flaps one arm like a chicken. Hawke just stares, confused. He hadn’t thought that losing a tongue would impact a person in the sanity department, but Karl seems completely checked out. He reaches back with his right hand, groping for the doorknob to let himself out. Karl approaches while Hawke has his gaze turned down toward the door, and Hawke jumps when he feels hands on his arm. His instinctive response is to jerk his arm away, which results in a sharp pain shooting out and down from his shoulder, and he falls against the door, crying out in surprise.

Karl again covers the distance between them, laying his hands on Hawke’s arm, gently pressing with his fingertips up Hawke's bicep until he reaches the shoulder. When Hawke sucks in a breath between his teeth at the touch, Karl sighs and drops his hands, backing away again. He points at the shoulder and mimes a question mark with his other hand.

“Yes, that fucking hurt!” Hawke snaps, his right hand hovering protectively over the shoulder now. This had not been in the game plan. He's about one minute away from leaving the apartment to simply wander Darktown and find the Templars himself if Karl keeps up this nonsense.

Karl rolls his eyes and his whole head gets in on the motion. Sassy son of a bitch. He digs into his pocket, holds up a “one minute” finger to Hawke, and taps out something on his phone. He shows the screen to Hawke when he’s done.

_When did you injure it? What happened? How long has it been like this?_

Hawke scowls. “How is this relevant? Either you take me to them or tell me where they are, or I’ll make you.”

Karl considers for a moment, pulls his phone back to type a little more in the note, then holds it back out.

_When did you injure it? What happened? How long has it been like this?  
I’m trying to help you._

“I don’t want your help. Not with this.” Hawke gestures to his shoulder. “Just fucking tell me.”

_When did you injure it? What happened? How long has it been like this?_  
I’m trying to help you.  
I’ll tell you if you let me help you. 

Hawke lets his head fall back against the door, closing his eyes. “Why the fuck would you want to help me?” Especially considering the last time they’d seen each other, Hawke had threatened to kill him if Karl tipped off the Templars to his presence. Judging by Karl’s reaction when he opened the door, he hadn’t forgotten. It didn’t make sense.

“Ah oh,” Karl says. Hawke opens one eye to look at him, raising an eyebrow.

_When did you injure it? What happened? How long has it been like this?_  
I’m trying to help you.  
I’ll tell you if you let me help you.  
I’m a doctor. 

“You’re a walking hero complex is what you are,” he scoffs. But he doesn’t leave and he doesn’t protest, much, when Karl returns to prodding his arm.

_When did you injure it? What happened? How long has it been like this?_  
I’m trying to help you.  
I’ll tell you if you let me help you.  
I’m a doctor.  
Do what I do. 

Hawke obediently mimics Karl, raising and lowering his arm, twisting the shoulder around in its socket. The faces and noises he makes apparently tell Karl what he needs to know, and Hawke pulls his arm back into its customary place across his stomach when Karl focuses back on his phone, deleting the text in the note to replace it with new words.

_How long since you injured it?_

Hawke groans at the intent look in Karl’s blue eyes. He’s traded in one doctor for another, but at least this one can’t make sarcastic remarks at him all the time. And, according to Varric’s paperwork, he will need the signoff of a doctor before he can return to his real work at The Hanged Man. He sighs. The things he’s willing to do.

“Little over a month.” Karl’s eyes widen and he makes a strangled noise. “What?”

_How long since you injured it?  
Have you done any sort of physical therapy?_

Hawke looks to the side. Karl taps on his phone.

_How long since you injured it?_  
Have you done any sort of physical therapy?  
We have a lot of ground to make up. 

“What the hell does that mean?”

_How long since you injured it?_  
Have you done any sort of physical therapy?  
We have a lot of ground to make up.  
You start physical therapy with me, and I’ll introduce you to my contact. 

“Today.” Hawke narrows his eyes and points a finger at Karl. “You’ll introduce me today. I won’t deal with any vague bullshit.”

_How long since you injured it?_  
Have you done any sort of physical therapy?  
We have a lot of ground to make up.  
You start physical therapy with me, and I’ll introduce you to my contact.  
Agree and I’ll send the message now. 

Hawke appraises the doctor for a minute. He isn’t very tall, already gray, and not intimidating at all. He’d cowered the moment he saw Hawke. And yet he stands there, arms crossed over his thin chest, giving ultimatums to Hawke. Grudgingly, Hawke has to admire his nerve. He grinds his teeth and nods. Karl nods back.

_How long since you injured it?_  
Have you done any sort of physical therapy?  
We have a lot of ground to make up.  
You start physical therapy with me, and I’ll introduce you to my contact.  
Agree and I’ll send the message now.  
Sent. 

“Show me.” Karl looks confused and Hawke rolls his eyes. “I’m not just going to _trust_ that you sent it. Show me.”

K: **_I need you to meet someone today, my place._**

Hawke sighs and passes a hand through his dreads. “Tell me when there’s a response.”

_Follow me. Do what I do._

And for the next hour, Karl moves a steadily more impatient Hawke through a series of shoulder mobility exercises. He’s sore and angry by the time Karl motions to the couch, and he collapses onto it with little care for how it jostles his shoulder. That pain just joins the rest, making it easier for him to ignore. Karl hands him a glass of water, and he eyes it suspiciously before drinking. Karl makes a noise that sounds like a sigh.

John Doe: **_I’ll send T_**

“Your contact’s name is John Doe?” Hawke arches an eyebrow as Karl shows him the message. Karl’s face twists into the most incredulous look Hawke has ever seen on a human being, and he raises his hands. “Yeah, alright, fine, stupid question.”

_They’ll be here eventually. Please don’t touch anything._

Karl hands Hawke the TV remote and wanders off, puttering around the apartment and tidying things. Must have been what he’d been doing before Hawke interrupted. Hawke groans and lays out flat on the couch, or as flat as he’s able to get, considering his height. He closes his eyes. The soft sounds of Karl cleaning slowly drag him into a light slumber, a dreamless nap, and when the knock comes at the door, he wakes feeling, if not refreshed, then at least a little better than before.

Karl looks at Hawke, makes a T shape with his hands, and heads to the door. Hawke rolls off the couch, rubbing at his eyes, and stands in the middle of the living room. He taps the toes of one foot against the floor, attempting to bleed off some of his nervous energy before he meets this “T” person, whoever he is. His mind turns to static, and he grasps to find the threads of the plan that brought him here in the first place.

At the door, Hawke can see red hair over the top of Karl’s head. He can’t quite make out the words T says, but his voice carries over to Hawke, low and kind. What the hell kind of Templar sounds like _that?_ Hawke is still trying to puzzle that out when Karl steps back to allow T into the apartment.

T is shorter than Hawke, most people are, but he carries himself well, shoulders back, head up. It lends him an air of authority, and Hawke knows why this would be the man sent to investigate Karl’s mystery-meet person. His face invites honesty; he looks like someone you could talk to about your rough day at work and he would listen sympathetically, nodding in all the right places and offering sound advice. His blue eyes are a little sad, and it makes Hawke think that he must have been an optimistic sort once, before he got involved with the Templars. What a waste.

They appraise each other, T stopping a few feet from Hawke. Neither of them extend a hand to shake. Karl goes back to straightening his apartment, but he does a poor job of hiding his curiosity, staring openly at the two men in the middle of his living room as he subtly shifts a table lamp. T spreads his hands to the sides and crosses his arms.

“Well?”

Well indeed. Hawke has really got to stop haring off on half-baked plans. It’s going to get him into trouble one of these days. 

“I want to join up,” he says, shoving his right hand in his pocket. 

T’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t otherwise react. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the act, Templar. I know who you’re with.” Hawke rocks back on his heels, a show of casual insolence, and grins at the shock that T quickly schools from his face. “I’ve done my research; I used to run down here. You Templars are making quite the name for yourselves, upsetting the territory balance.”

Something shrewd passes behind T’s eyes before disappearing, dropped in favor of neutral disdain. “And what would you know of it? By your own admission, you _used_ to run down here. Things change.”

Hawke shrugs one shoulder. “Sure. But some things don’t. You’ll always need more men. More than that, you’ll always need more men who know what the fuck they’re doing.” He jerks his thumb toward his chest before hooking it on his belt. “That’s me.”

T sighs, grips the bridge of his nose in one hand, and stares at Hawke over his fingers. “You’ll have to do better than that. Every recruit claims he knows shit.”

Hawke laughs. “Yeah, turns out they know _shit._ ” T snorts softly and Hawke counts that as a win. “Look, you remember Meeran, right? That protection racket he had going on before he went straight a few years back?” He waits for T to nod before he continues.

“That was me. Not all me, sure, but the man couldn’t have done it without me.” He rolls his shoulder and lifts his chin, waiting as T reassesses him. 

“The red iron job?” T finally asks, uncrossing his arms.

A slow smirk spreads up one side of Hawke’s face. “Hah, that gig was almost a disaster,” he says, his eyes unfocusing as he falls into the memory. “Athenril was trying to move some hot cargo under the nose of the Coterie, and they didn’t take too kindly to missing a cut of the action so they sent a few of theirs down to the docks to interrupt the shipment. Unluckily for them, ‘thenril had contracted with Meeran and quietly changed the time of the drop so the only thing waiting for them at the docks was me.” Hawke chuckles. “That was a fun night.”

There’s a...look on T’s face that Hawke can’t quite identify. But the way his lips twitch, it almost seems as though he’s trying not to laugh, and Hawke’s not sure how to take that. Could be good, could be “kid, you are outta your depth.” T is obviously older than him by perhaps a decade, and Hawke wonders just how many recruits T has seen come and go and if he’s evaluating Hawke’s chances for survival now, as they stand here. It wouldn’t surprise him. He’d be doing the same thing.

“Karl says you have eight weeks until you’re useful.”

Hawke shoots a glare at the doctor who freezes then shrugs, almost apologetically. “Tattletale,” he growls, turning back to T. “Bet I’m still more useful than half your guys, even with this.” He gestures to his left shoulder. No use trying to hide it if Karl has already ratted him out. 

T hmms thoughtfully. “We’ll see. I can make a recommendation, but I can’t guarantee anything. I don’t make the decisions. Give me your number; I’ll be in touch.”

And that’s it. After the number exchange, T has a brief conversation with Karl then leaves without another glance at Hawke. Hawke stands, a little poleaxed, in Karl’s living room for a minute before pulling himself together. He shrugs his shoulder a few times, shakes out his legs, and heads for the door, stopping short when he feels Karl tapping on his arm.

_Do those exercises every day._

“Sure, mother.”

_Do those exercises every day, or else you’ll be stuck like that for the rest of your life and the Templars won’t take you._

Hawke just growls and slams the front door behind him. It’s early yet, but that just means The Hanged Man will be empty, and that suits him just fine. Shale nods to him at the door, and Velanna mixes his drink quickly with no one else to attend to. He takes the glass to a corner booth and sits, staring at the wall until the shift changes and Isabela’s knowing glances become too much. He drops his empty glass off at the bar, shaking his head at Isabela when she opens her mouth to speak to him, and walks home, head bowed.


	30. Chapter Thirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke digs in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music rec: "Way Down We Go" by Kaleo

“You seem distracted.”

Hawke looks up from the laptop, his finger stabbing the page he’s working on to keep his place, to see Varric standing in front of the table. Fenris, from his now customary spot across from Hawke, lifts his eyes from his phone to watch.

“You happen to be distracting me.”

“Oh, Hawke, we both know better than that,” Varric says, laughing. His gaze rests meaningfully on Fenris for a moment before fixing back on Hawke. “I mean, you’re usually done by now.”

Hawke checks the time, surprised when it shows 10:30 pm, and glares at Fenris, who simply shrugs.

“I was not informed of my time-keeping duties.”

Hawke sighs, looks at the stack of papers he has, and tells Varric, “half an hour.”

Varric nods and heads back to the office, and Hawke is about to turn back to his work when he notices Fenris watching him. He raises a questioning eyebrow.

“It would likely go faster if you did not check your phone all the time.” Fenris’s tone is mild, but  Hawke knows him well enough to hear the undercurrent of disapproval and curls his lip in response. It’s likely true though; he’s been occupied with checking and rechecking his phone the last day or two. T hasn’t texted, and Hawke is beginning to get antsy. He’s not sure what to expect with this, and he really doesn’t like that feeling.

He grumbles and shoves his phone in his pocket before returning to the work before him. Thirty-eight minutes later, but who’s counting Varric says when Hawke drops off the laptop, and Hawke waves perfunctorily at Isabela as he leaves the bar, shoving his hands in his hoodie pockets. He doesn’t walk far, just stops once he’s rounded the corner, and leans against the solid brick of the building there. He sighs and rubs his face with his hand, still just the right. His left shoulder is moving a little better, after a few days of actually doing the mobility exercises Karl had run him through earlier that week, but it isn’t up to normal.

It bothers him to be so obviously injured, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little extra on edge when he walked to The Hanged Man in the evenings. Varric’s typical ride home after work, as much for Varric as for Hawke, he imagines, has helped with that, though he’d never admit as much. He’s enjoyed Fenris’s presence at his booth the last couple weeks too, but that’s another thing that wild horses won’t drag out of him. Mostly he’s glad that Fenris feels comfortable enough with him still to sit there. He knows Fenris gets along splendidly with Isabela and Zevran, even Bull, so it says something that he continues to come to Hawke after getting his drink and exchanging pleasantries with the bar staff.

Hell if he knows  _ what _ it says, though.

“Please tell me that you are not planning something stupid.” 

Hawke lowers his hands to see Fenris standing at the corner, hands in his pockets. The streetlamp behind him casts his face in shadow, but Hawke can imagine what sort of vaguely frowning face Fenris wears; Maker knows he’s seen it enough. He groans softly and lets his head thunk back against the building.

“You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

A whisper of fabric and Hawke knows Fenris shrugged.

“I might.” And Void take it, but Hawke can hear the desperation in Fenris’s voice, the pleading that he say something that Fenris can believe. He shuts his eyes and grinds his teeth. 

“I can’t.” Even if he wanted to lie to Fenris, there’s nothing he can say, no way Fenris won’t see right through him like he always has. 

“Try?” Fenris asks, choking on the end of the word, and Hawke’s eyes snap open. He looks over,  _ really _ looks, squinting past the glare of the streetlamp. Fenris’s hands are fisted in his pockets, and Hawke can see tiny movements in his arms as they shake in quietly controlled emotion. His feet are uncharacteristically still on the pavement, not scuffing the stone or rubbing each other. Hawke’s eyebrows draw together in confusion and concern as he realizes that Fenris is  _ upset _ . All his breath leaves him in a whoosh, and he sighs out the next breath he takes too.

“I’m not planning anything stupid,” he says, forcing the lie out through gritted teeth. He closes his eyes again and swings one foot back to knock against the wall. On the corner, Fenris chuckles mirthlessly, having heard exactly what he knew he would. He falls silent, and after a few minutes Hawke has to peek one eye open to see if he’s still there. He is. Finally Fenris shakes his head and pulls his hands out of his pockets, shaking them loose.

“I’ll drive you home.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It’s only once the weekend is over that Hawke finally receives word from T, and even then, it’s not much.

T:  **_Meet at K’s_ **

He stares at his phone for a moment, annoyed that the man wouldn’t even specify a time, then realizes that the lack of time probably means  _ now _ . The books are still spread in front of him, and he hasn’t even crested the halfway point. 

“Shit.”

Fenris looks up as Hawke gathers the papers and laptop together, somehow managing to look more sad and concerned than anything else, but he doesn’t say a word. Hawke pauses as he gets up, arms wrapped around his work, and looks at Fenris. Fenris watches him, his green eyes wide as if begging him not to leave. Hawke opens his mouth but nothing comes out, and he blinks, shakes his head, and shrugs as he turns and heads for the office.

“I gotta, uh...Bethany…” He jerks his thumb toward the door, and Varric looks up.

“You need a ride?”

“No, uh, she’s coming to get me, I just gotta,” he gestures toward the door again and darts back through, practically running across the floor to leave The Hanged Man. 

Varric stands in the door of the office after Hawke leaves, exchanging a glance first with Isabela then looking to Fenris, as he comes to join them at the bar. Fenris’s lips are pressed tight together, and he swallows thickly, setting his drink down next to Bull. He sits, wraps his hands around the stem of the wine glass, and stares at it.

“Well, shit,” Varric says and walks back into the office.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Even with all of Hawke’s hustle, he doesn’t beat T to Karl’s apartment. The older man is sitting comfortably on Karl’s couch as Hawke enters and nods a brief hello to Karl as the doctor shuts the door behind him. Hawke lifts his chin at T and settles his back against the wall opposite the couch. 

“Evening, Hawke,” T greets, his eyes intent on Hawke’s face, hunting for a reaction. Hawke doesn’t give him one, just raises an eyebrow. He’d be more worried if T and the Templars  _ hadn’t _ gone digging for his name. Not like it would be hard to find: Karl could ask Anders, who has his name on paperwork at the clinic, or the Templars could ask about with folks who used to be close with Meeran or Athenril. It would serve them well to substantiate his story, anyway, make sure he was indeed the one to do what he claims. 

“I trust everything is to your satisfaction?” Hawke hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans and smirks. T frowns, and Hawke has to bite back a laugh at how much he looks like a disapproving father as he stands to face Hawke on level ground.

“There’s the matter of your shoulder.”

Hawke shrugs, just to show he can even though it doesn’t feel great. “Seven weeks,” he says with a wave of one hand. “And that’s just for full mobility. I’m still damn effective with one arm.” 

T nods thoughtfully, then feints toward Hawke with his left side, bringing his right arm across in a hook. Hawke, up against the wall, steps left, slapping T’s elbow away from him, and moves forward, tapping the back of T’s head as he moves past. He snorts as if to say, “really? That’s it?” and falls back onto the couch so recently vacated, grinning.

“Any further questions?” He casually drapes his right arm across the back of the couch.

T frowns again, and Hawke does laugh this time. He feels giddy, like he’s a dumb punk kid again, skirting the rules and getting away with it. By the look in T’s eyes, he feels much the same way...and resents it. Hawke curls one corner of his mouth up because he knows, he knows the end result of this meeting and he can tell how much T wishes he didn’t have to do this.

“Physical therapy here once a week. Non-negotiable,” he says, catching the look on Hawke’s face. “You’re not a Templar. You’re a recruit, which means you follow orders and that’s it. Show up where you’re told and when you’re told, do what you’re told, which in this case means  _ physical therapy _ , and maybe there will be a place for you once you’ve earned it.”

T crosses his arms and manages to look even more disapproving than he already had. “Given your...past, I was against letting you in at all. Unfortunately I am not the only voice in deciding these things.”

Hawke actually considers this for a moment. The pause and deliberate way T had phrased “past” concerns him a little. It’s possible all T meant was his affiliation with Meeran back in the day, but Hawke worries it means he knows about Carver. He’s not sure how detailed of records the Templars keep, but it’s not outside the realm of possibility to think that the familial connection wouldn’t go unnoticed. That Carver was killed by Templars is known only to a few: Hawke, Aveline, and the Templars, who don’t know that Hawke and Aveline know. The death was investigated as another mugging gone wrong, a hard blow for the Hawke family after Malcolm’s murder had been treated the same way.

Even if the Templars connected the Hawkes, they would have little reason to suspect this Hawke’s motives for joining, being unaware of his knowledge of their misdeed. Unless they already suspected? Looking at T, Hawke thinks that he might. He seems like the sort with a long memory.

“Why tell me that?”

T smiles, and Hawke finds he does not like that expression on the man. “Because I  _ do _ have the only say-so that matters when it comes to kicking. Recruits. Out.”  _ So stay in line _ is the unspoken end to that threat, and Hawke hears it loud and clear. He grits his teeth and nods. He doesn’t intend on fully toeing the line, just enough and only when T is looking to keep himself in the gang. T looks mollified, though, and Hawke accepts the win.

“So,” he says, dropping his arm off the back of the couch and leaning forward, “what am I doing first?”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

When Hawke walks into The Hanged Man on Wednesday, it’s to a sea of stares. Zevran looks up from making a drink, Bull watches him from  _ Hawke’s spot _ at the bar, Varric leans against the doorjamb of the office, arms crossed and contemplative, and Fenris frowns at the vicinity of Hawke’s knees. Hawke does his best to ignore them all, brushing past Varric into the office to grab the books.

“How’s Bethany?” Varric asks, turning in the doorway to face Hawke as he rummages around the desk.

“What? Fine,” Hawke mutters distractedly, freezing when it creeps into his brain the actual importance of the question. “I mean, she’s fine. Turns out it was nothing, but I’d rather her be safe than sorry, you know?” 

“Sure, sure.” Varric waits until Hawke has straightened from the desk, hands full of computer and papers, before saying, “there’s Monday to finish, too. And end of month for March.” He crosses the office and piles the extra stacks of paper in Hawke’s arms then flaps his hands at Hawke. “Now shoo.”

Hawke’s drink is waiting for him at the booth with Fenris, who says nothing as Hawke spreads the papers all across the surface of the table while the laptop boots up. Fenris just moves his arms out of the way when Hawke pushes a few things that direction and shifts his position on the bench to get more comfortable with the new orientation. He doesn’t speak for hours as Hawke works, with the exception of the couple times he takes Hawke’s glass to the bar to get refilled. Even then, he only exchanges a few words with Zevran and Bull before coming directly back to the table. Fenris himself sticks with his singular glass of wine, switching to water once he finishes the drink after nursing it for as long as possible.

The extra work means Hawke is still at the booth for a while after his usual quitting time, and he’s somewhat startled to realize that Fenris seems to have no intentions of leaving either, as he stretches one long leg down the bench, his eyes intent on his phone. It simultaneously warms his heart and angers him, that Fenris thinks he needs someone to watch over him. He wonders how much Fenris has pieced together; the man’s way too perceptive, really, and that confrontation in the alley the other night, combined with the looks he’s been getting since, just confirms his suspicion that Fenris knows  _ something _ .

So tonight, when he’s finished with his work, instead of turning it in to the office, he piles the papers mostly neatly on top of the laptop and shoves it to the end of the table. Fenris looks up from his phone, eyes taking in the work pile before tracking to Hawke. He raises an eyebrow and waits for Hawke to speak first.

_ “World-class groveling,” _ Alistair’s voice says in Hawke’s mind, and he scowls. 

“Fenris?”

“Mm?”

“Are we...friends?” Hawke can hear his inner-mind-Alistair groaning at that and does his best to ignore it. Fenris considers this for long enough that Hawke begins to bounce his foot under the table, anxious for a response.

“I would like that,” Fenris says finally, the expression on his face tentatively open and hopeful. Hawke blinks.

“Wait, so were we not before and we are now? Or will we be soon or what?”

Fenris chuckles softly and shuts off the screen of his phone before laying it on the table. “I don't know that we were friends before trying to become something more,” he muses, twisting his lips in a wry smile. “I know that I...I wanted more from the moment I saw you.” 

Hawke sits back against the booth cushion and gapes. Fenris drops his head and gazes up at Hawke through his eyelashes, looking bashful and innocent as anything.

“That's not fair,” Hawke complains, averting his eyes. “You can't just fucking say shit like that.”

“It appears as though I just did.” Fenris shrugs, a small motion of his shoulders. “Should I not?”

It's a genuine question, Hawke can tell, Fenris checking his boundaries now, after everything that passed between them. He sighs and palms his face, trying to buy himself a little time to think. It’s not that he doesn’t want to hear such things from Fenris, it just would have been nice to hear them earlier or to be in a situation where it was more appropriate for them to speak this way to each other. He’s been trying to stick to friendly conversation topics when they talk, trying to be OK with the distance Fenris placed between them. This...does not help.

“I won’t stop you from saying what you want,” he says, pulling his hand off his face and waving it vaguely in a circle. Fenris blinks slowly and nods, as if coming to some decision.

“I would like us to be friends, Hawke.”

Hawke folds his hands together, places them on the table, and leans forward toward Fenris. “So, what, were we not friends for the last few weeks? I’m still confused, Fenris. You gotta help me out, here.”

His only reply is a warm chuckle from Fenris and glittering green eyes crinkled in amusement as Fenris takes a drink. 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“We’re hitting a supply house,” T informs Hawke and the others when they’ve assembled at one of the Templar safehouses in Darktown. 

“Supply house for what?” Hawke asks before he remembers himself and mimes shutting his lips. T gives him a warning glare. 

“You don’t need to know. All you need to know is this: two entrances, one in the front, one leading out to a side street; an estimated ten men, give or take, inside the building, possibly a few more rotating around the block as advance warning guards. You’re there to take out the muscle and trash the goods. I trust that won’t be an issue.”

A few of the others snicker, and Hawke wishes the lighting in this place were better so he could see faces. As it is, he can make out vague body types for most of them but no more detail than that. T is standing next to the sole light source in the room, a lamp with what has to be a 6-watt bulb in it because that thing is  _ useless _ . It’s on purpose, and Hawke knows it, but he can’t help resenting being treated like he’s untrustworthy (even if he is). He wonders if the lack of light is solely for him or if there are others here that T doesn’t like or if it’s a standard procedure. He wouldn’t know if it’s the latter; this is his first official Templar mission.

T had texted an address and a time to Hawke earlier that afternoon, with the word “delete” following the information. His phone had been checked on arrival to make sure he’d complied with the order. He had, but he’d also backed up his phone to a hidden folder on Varric’s laptop that evening while he worked before deleting nearly everything from the device: most contacts, all photos, nearly every text message. The contacts he’d kept were nicknamed so the people behind them weren’t readily guessed, and the phone itself had been encrypted. He’d rather be paranoid than have any of his friends or family come to harm because of him.

_ Why?  _ is the question Hawke really wants to ask, but he knows it would only serve to push T closer to punting him from the Templars, and after he’d barely gotten in in the first place. So he grits his teeth and doesn’t say anything, resolving instead to keep his eyes wide open and figure things out for himself.

They come at the building separately, in small groups of two or three; Hawke’s been paired with a young kid named Keran who has to be a fairly new recruit with the way he’s shaking, considering the mid-April night is mild enough for Hawke to wish he hadn’t worn his hoodie. He smacks Keran lightly with the back of his hand to draw his attention as they near the supply house, a modern industrial warehouse-looking building on the edge of Darktown and the Docks, essentially just a seedier Lowtown that borders Kirkwall’s waterways. Keran jumps at Hawke’s touch, and Hawke has to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep him from crying out. For fuck’s sake…

“Look kid,” Hawke growls, removing his hand from Keran’s mouth and clapping it to his shoulder, “you gotta relax or you’re gonna fuckin’ shank one of us.” Keran’s eyes widen and Hawke rolls his. “Accidentally.”

The kid exhales a shaky breath and nods, and not for the first time on their walk over here does Hawke wonder what in the hell possessed the Templar decision-makers to let a  _ child _ like this into the ranks. Well, not technically  _ in _ yet, but Hawke would put good money on the kid messing up something fierce within the next few months. He just has that look about him.

The two of them have been assigned to watch the side door for a few minutes after the rest of the group breaches the front door, in case any of the men inside attempt to flee or any of the circulating guards come back around. T insisted his intel said they wouldn’t, but Hawke watches for them anyway, just in case. Better safe than winding up on the ground with a bruised jaw, which is what happens to Keran when someone larger even than Hawke barrels out of the darkness on the other side of the street and body checks him into the stone pavement within the first minute of their watch.

Hawke sidesteps as the man comes at them, but Keran hadn’t seen him, hadn’t heard the signs, hadn’t noticed the way Hawke had stiffened before relaxing, moving fluidly away. Hawke groans, the kid apparently has no self-preservation instinct, but gives him no further thought, save to mark in his mind the location of Keran’s body on the ground so he won’t stumble over it. If he had continued to think on it, he would have compared Keran’s lack of spatial awareness to Carver’s, though at least Carver hadn’t ever in his life been scared of a fight.

The lighting is poor, the only streetlamp with a working bulb stands half a block away. The lamp on the corner of the warehouse is suspiciously out, and Hawke suspects that whenever the bulb gets replaced by an enterprising city worker, it suddenly stops working shortly thereafter. Whether there’s a manufactured short in the lamp or someone comes by to blow the filament, it doesn’t really matter. It just tells Hawke that whoever’s house this is runs serious business.

The man who charged Keran easily outweighs Hawke, topping him in height by a couple inches as well. In fact, he’s built a lot like Sten, and Hawke smirks as he settles into a fighting stance, fists raised. He’s sparred with Sten a couple times; he knows what it takes to make someone of that size fall and not get up. The man mirrors Hawke, and they circle slowly, feinting occasionally to test the other’s defenses. Hawke looks forward to an actual, real fight like he hasn’t had since around Halloween and those punks in Fenris’s house. This man knows what he’s doing, and they’re pretty evenly matched even considering the size difference.

The first real punch the man throws, though, has Hawke reevaluating. Because the strike is aimed  at his throat, and Hawke instinctively bats the fist away with his right hand, redirecting it to the left. It connects with his left shoulder instead. Hawke stumbles, the pain from the blow radiating down his arm, rendering it essentially useless, though it hadn’t been an asset anyway. He can see the self-satisfied smirk that contorts the man’s face before it disappears behind a blank mask. At least the man has some semblance of honor, or something, waiting for Hawke to regain his feet before sending a flurry of blows that has Hawke scampering backward, ducking and weaving to avoid the hits. Even if the blow to his shoulder had happened while it was uninjured, it still would have knocked it out of commission for a while; this man can hit like a fucking truck.

He’s also way too perceptive, having clocked Hawke’s injured shoulder from the short amount of time they stared each other down. It’s going to be a hard fight. 

The big man chases Hawke down the sidewalk, nearly to the streetlamp that actually works where Hawke ducks under a punch, twisting in a 180 around his pursuer. The circle of light cast by the lamp illuminates Hawke’s opponent for a few seconds before he forces Hawke back into the semi-darkness. It’s enough of a glimpse for Hawke to begin to think this fight might be impossible, though, especially given his injury. It’s the markings drawn on the man’s face and down his arms that give him away, not like it looks like he’s trying to hide them, in any case. The red pigment paints across his skin in thick, geometric patterns, nearly covering the entire lower half of his face before falling down to coat his neck and arms. 

The Qunari typically stay to themselves, and Hawke hasn’t heard anything about them trying to stir up much trouble around town. They stick close by the Docks, and although they’re viscous in defending what’s theirs against would-be encroachers, they don’t seek out conflict. Why the Templars would be mounting a raid on one of their supply houses isn’t something Hawke can figure out yet. And he doesn’t have the time to spend pondering, as the Qunari charges Hawke, not content with the current tempo of things.

Hawke sidesteps and lashes out with a foot, catching the back of the Qunari’s knee and sending him tumbling forward a few steps. It gives him the upper hand for a moment, and he capitalizes on it, hopping forward a step to kick again, hitting the Qunari’s lower back. The man hits the pavement face-first, though that doesn’t keep him down long. He’s back on his feet within seconds, any blood or wound on his face obfuscated by the red paint. Well, now Hawke knows why they do  _ that _ . It’s fucking terrifying, knowing that the man has to be injured somewhere but not knowing where. 

Hawke looks around, casting about for something he can use as a weapon while the other man regains his feet, backing up slowly to put more distance between them. The Qunari snarls at him and charges again. Just before he reaches Hawke, Hawke grabs the doorknob to the side door he’s supposed to be guarding, says a quick prayer to the Maker, and jerks the door open as hard as he can, letting it slam into the Qunari’s face. As the door swings back closed, Hawke grabs it again, sending it flying toward the Qunari a second time. That crumples him to the ground in a senseless heap, and Hawke exhales a shaky laugh then bends over against the doorjamb, grasping at his shoulder.

“Ow.”

He drags Keran into the supply house one-handed and leaves him just inside the door, so that anyone entering will trip on him first. At least it will give Hawke some advance warning he figures as he locks the door and sets off in search of T and the rest of the men. He finds them farther in, up an oddly wheelchair-accessible ramp for a warehouse and through one of the few doors. Turns out to be an office, T flipping through pages and pages of documents while the others break open crates, tossing lighter fluid on the contents. It mostly looks like the usual detritus one would find in a store house: some extra clothing, a few weapons, some bits and bobs of what looks like jewelry (that’s a little weird), a lot of books, actually.

T looks up as Hawke enters the office and folds a handful of pages before stuffing them into one of the pockets on his tactical pants. “Well?” he asks.

“Took out a scout but not before he took out Keran.” Hawke jerks a thumb toward the side door.

“Dead?”

Hawke blinks once. “The scout? No… He’s out like a fucking light, though.”

T shakes his head and a couple of the men in the office laugh as they slip past Hawke to, presumably, perform the same feat to the rest of the warehouse. The older man’s eyes are hard and a little sad as he looks at Hawke once the others have left.

“Finish him,” he says and exits the office. 

Hawke inhales deeply, closing his eyes as he holds the breath. He opens his eyes on the exhale, nods once, and heads back to the side door.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Hawke finds it hard to look at Fenris the next day he works. He focuses on the books the best he can, but red swims just behind his field of vision and it takes him until 11:00 to finish. Fenris stays with him, glancing up occasionally, his eyebrows furrowed permanently above his wounded eyes. Hawke can see him around the laptop screen whenever he peeks up from his phone. Somehow Fenris knows something is wrong, and the kicked puppy look is nearly enough to do Hawke in, get him to confess. Nearly. But not quite.

He packs up and leaves The Hanged Man without saying goodbye. Fenris lets him go. More surprisingly, Varric does too.

T texts sporadically over the next couple weeks, directing Hawke and the others to various things around the city, always same-day. Hawke calls off work one Monday to go look intimidating in front of a door in Lowtown for a few hours. He never learns why. One Thursday he spends moving boxes from one building to another, a safehouse move, he figures and is unsurprised when he hears about the old safehouse going up in flames on the news. 

He forgets to text Varric on a Friday when T calls him out for a job in the early afternoon. Varric accepts Hawke’s apology when he visits on Saturday and tell him that Monday’s work will include Friday’s as well as end-of-month for April. Fair, considering, and Hawke promises to be there early Monday to get started. But T pulls Hawke out of bed early Monday morning to go wandering down the coast searching for a deserter, and they don’t return until Tuesday afternoon. Hawke walks into The Hanged Man on Wednesday, tired and haunted, and asks for the books.

“Once more,” Varric warns, not handing over the papers until Hawke nods his understanding.

Fenris doesn’t come into The Hanged Man that evening.

A week later sees Hawke raiding another Qunari store house. Keran has improved somewhat and doesn’t get taken out by the first Qunari he doesn’t see, and Hawke finds he’s vaguely proud of the kid. Maybe he was wrong about him. Probably not, but maybe. It’s only after they’ve parted ways at the Templar safehouse, Hawke winding his way back up to Lowtown through the back streets he’s come to know intimately again, that he realizes Varric’s going to kill him for missing yet another day.

“Go away, Hawke,” Varric says, when Hawke appears in the doorway to the office. He doesn’t turn around.

“Varric, I—”

“I don’t care what you have to say, Hawke.” Varric sighs and waves a hand toward the door. “You’re done here. Come back when you have a doctor’s note.”

Hawke stalks back through The Hanged Man, ignoring Isabela and her probably pitying face and Bull and his too-sharp gaze. He especially doesn’t look at Fenris.


	31. Chapter Thirty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke descends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your comments, kudos, and support! I love each and every one of you so very much! <3
> 
> Music rec: ["Come With Me Now"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5tDjYuqJRJQ) by Kongos

The next day Hawke spends on a tear around his house. It’s a good thing Bethany absconded with Cheerio because his anger is indiscriminate, and by the time he’s done, there is virtually no surface that hasn’t had something thrown on it, no piece of furniture that hasn’t been partially junked. The walls of the living room have scattered holes in the drywall, and his knuckles have corresponding abrasions. Blood drips slowly from his hands. Pieces of wall litter the floor, a fine white dust settling on everything as Hawke slams the back door and leaves. He doesn’t bother locking the door, just puts as much distance between himself and the house as he can.

He walks around Kirkwall for hours, his eyes unfocused on his surroundings, and he’s somewhat surprised to find that his feet have eventually taken him to one of the Gallows safehouses. Banging on the door brings a suspicious Templar to open it, and she leaves him on the stoop until she can verify his identity. T comes with her when she returns to let him in. One look at him and T is muttering something to the woman who nods and gestures for Hawke to follow her. He goes and T watches, something between concern and suspicion on his face. 

The woman leads Hawke down a hallway and up a set of stairs to a room that takes up the entire second floor of the building. It looks like a makeshift infirmary, a row of cots set up down the middle of the room, cabinets and refrigerators lining the far wall. On the wall that would show a view of the street if there were any windows is a set of examination rooms created from curtains. Next to where Hawke and the woman come off the stairs is a desk, with a blond-haired man with a ridiculous handlebar mustache staffing it.

The woman gestures to Hawke. “T sent him up here, so take a look at ‘im, I guess.”

“Sure, Ru,” the man says, standing up and rounding the desk.

“Thanks, Pax.” And she’s gone, bolting down the stairs.

“She doesn’t like it much up here,” the man, Pax, says, taking Hawke’s arm and steering him toward one of the cots. Hawke lets him lead, his mind fuzzy and blank. He feels the sting of something antibacterial as Pax cleans his knuckles, but it’s a distant sensation and hardly registers. His eyes drift between focused and unfocused, staring at the wall of cabinets. He watches Pax move from standing beside his cot to riffling through some drawers with the detachment of an out-of-body experience. Pax binds his knuckles with soft gauze, patting his hand softly once he finishes, and gently checking over the rest of him with swift, unerring fingers. Hawke barely notices.

Pax frowns at him when he finishes his examination and says something that Hawke’s muzzy brain can’t comprehend. When Hawke just sits on the cot, unmoving, for several more minutes, Pax pushes him back until Hawke drops to lie down. There’s some more mumbling around him, but Hawke just closes his eyes, passing out shortly thereafter.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

He wakes with his hand wrapped around a throat, his ears slowly filtering in the din that surrounds him. His eyes open, though it takes them a moment to focus on what’s happening and another to process it: his hand around Pax’s throat, the gauze half undone, Ru and a few others arrayed around the cot in various stages of consternation, all yelling at him.

Hawke narrows his eyes and sits up, though he doesn’t let go of Pax yet. Pax gurgles and Ru shouts, reaching forward. In a flash, Hawke’s knife is out and in his hand. Ru backs off some, glaring daggers.

“Ser!” someone near the back of the group says, and several others straighten and turn. Some of them pop off salutes. 

“Ser, he just grabbed Pax and he won’t let go!” Ru says, when someone new joins the ruckus by Hawke’s cot.

“Hawke,” the newcomer says, and Hawke’s head whips toward the voice. The man’s brown hair is longer than Hawke remembers it, held at the back of his head in a loose ponytail. Feathers of it still trail at his temples, framing brown eyes that are more tired, more serious than last Hawke saw. His terminally amiable face is set in a frown, and Hawke tilts his head at how incongruous that looks on him.

“Let him go, Hawke.”

Hawke blinks at Donnic then at Pax, whose face is red and bloated. He springs his fingers off Pax’s throat and both his arms fall back to his sides, the knife barely missing his leg. Ru and another man grab Pax under the arms and pull him toward another cot, one as far away from Hawke as they can get. The rest of the onlookers disperse slowly when it becomes apparent that there won’t be any further drama. 

Donnic gives him a look that says “don’t move” in no uncertain terms and strides away to check on Pax. Hawke watches him confer with Ru and the other man, Pax choking out a few words here and there. He closes his eyes and lays back down, trying to remember what the hell happened.

Eventually Donnic returns, sitting on a space piece of cot next to Hawke’s legs. “I’m Donnic,” he says, and Hawke props himself up on one elbow to squint at him for a moment before realizing that he’s not supposed to know who Donnic is and nodding. “This is my house. Want to tell me why you’re attacking my men when they’ve been so good as to patch you up and give you a space to sleep?”

His house? Hawke can’t think well enough for this conversation and shakes his head to try and clear it. He raises one hand to his forehead, startled and confused when Donnic darts forward to grab his wrist, then realizes he’d nearly stabbed himself but for Donnic’s quick thinking. He lets out a heavy breath and drops back to a prone position. 

“Should have let me,” he mutters. Donnic is silent for a long minute.

“You need more rest,” he says finally, standing and pocketing Hawke’s knife. “Do we need to restrain you?”

Hawke huffs. “Just don’t let those idiots near me.”

Donnic raises an eyebrow but nods. “We will speak later.” He speaks with Pax and Ru, who shoots him a dirty look but nods, then exits the infirmary.

Hawke’s head spins and he stares up at the ceiling. He’d forgotten until this moment that Donnic was undercover here; for some reason while making his plans, he hadn’t figured on ever crossing paths with him. He’d honestly thought the Templars were big enough that he’d be able to sneak in without Donnic, and thus Aveline, being the wiser. But now that Donnic knows...well, it’s just a matter of time until he’s able to make a report to Aveline and tattle on him. But what can she really do? She can’t mount a raid to get him out without compromising Donnic’s cover, and he hasn’t done anything she can link him to yet so she can’t arrest him. As long as he stays out of her way, he’ll be fine.

He takes a deep breath in, holds it for a few seconds, and lets it out, closing his eyes. He just has to stay  _ here _ .

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Karl gives him an indecipherable look the next time he shows up for physical therapy but tells him that his shoulder is progressing well and that it should only be a few more weeks before he’s back up to full speed, if he keeps with the new exercises they went through. Hawke scowls, wishing it would be less time than that but knowing that with the strain it’s been under the last few weeks with work for the Templars, a few more weeks is the best he can hope for. He sits on Karl’s couch for ten minutes after their session, staring at the floor while Karl moves around him, and does his best to ignore the sympathetic look he gets when he finally rises to leave.

The house Hawke walks back to may be Donnic’s in theory, but T runs it in practice. Any time T shows up, any and all regular goings-on are halted until he gets what he wants. It pisses Hawke off, and he can tell that it doesn’t exactly fill Donnic with the warm fuzzies either. But there isn’t a whole lot either of them can do about it, Donnic due to wherever he’s stuck on the Templar hierarchy and Hawke because T still holds the threat of expulsion over him whenever he gets the chance.

He shoves the door open, nodding curtly to the Templar who isn’t Ru stationed on door duty, and takes the stairs two at a time to the third floor. They’d moved him out of the infirmary once he’d not shown a tendency to strangle anyone while conscious and after verifying that he’s in essentially good health except for his habit of staring into space. The third floor looks much like the infirmary, with several rows of bunks and a line of lockers on one wall. A couple doors lead to communal bathrooms. The lockers afford the only privacy for the men and women who sleep here, though only a scant few of them appear to be living there as Hawke now is. Mostly they come in and bunk for a night or two around a job and then leave to go back to their lives. Hawke envies them sometimes, though he knows he could go back to his house any time he wants. It’s just the first place Fenris, or anyone, will go to find him, and he doesn’t want to be found.

Hawke flings himself down on the cot directly across from the stairs. It has the best view of the entire room and the only way in and out, and it had only taken him one fight, if you could even call it that, to claim it as his own. The man had backed down after a few punches, retreating with a split lip and bruised cheek, not to mention a damaged ego. There hasn’t been an issue since, unless you call glaring at Hawke from the other side of the room an issue. Hawke doesn’t. He just ignores the man. 

He’s only just closed his eyes, intending on a nap, when someone kicks the end of his bed. He cracks one eye open, sees it’s Donnic, and grudgingly opens both.

“Get downstairs, bring any gear you like. Two minutes.” Donnic shrugs at Hawke when he raises a questioning eyebrow and moves further into the room, grabbing a couple others before jogging back down the stairs himself. Hawke sneaks a look at the others Donnic had tapped for the job, both competent, no-nonsense people, one of whom is already sliding a knife into her boot. He sighs and stands, swapping the shirt he has on for a darker one under his bed. His little knife is already in his pocket, Donnic had given it back after a few days, but he takes a moment to check for prying eyes before he lifts the mattress to grab the bowie he’d stashed there yesterday. He undoes his belt halfway and slides the sheathed knife to the small of his back, re-buckling the belt as he heads downstairs.

There’s a semi-large group of people assembled on the main floor of the building, more than Hawke has ever seen for a mission, anyway. He stands near the back, looking through the sea of heads to find T closest to the door. T paces back and forth, his eyes on the stairs, and when he sees the other two descend after Hawke, he halts in the vague center and clasps his hands behind his back.

“We have a chance tonight to strike a serious blow,” he says, and Hawke rolls his eyes. Grandstanding asshole. “We’ve received word that the Qunari are receiving a shipment of some sort of explosive tonight at the docks. They must not be allowed to take custody of that weapon. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what sort of harm they could do with that.”

T looks at a few of the Templars and they shuffle uncomfortably. Hawke gets the feeling that he’s missing out on some juicy Templar history and resolves to find out just what it is somehow. Perhaps Donnic knows.

“You’ll be split into squads, each with a different objective. Once you’ve been assigned, you will be told your objective. Myself, Don, and V will be your leaders. Any questions you have can be asked when you are in your squad.” 

Hawke hopes desperately to be placed with Donnic, but the fates are unkind and T assigns him to work with V, a Templar Hawke has never met and despises on sight. V is a weaselly looking man with brown hair cropped in an unflattering attempt at a modern update on the bowl cut. At least he doesn’t have a mustache. That would have just made him look creepy.

Fifteen minutes of “go here, do this” instructions later, V has the group on the move through Darktown toward the docks. They’re not moving together, too noticeable, so V and a few others take a car down, while Hawke and the others drift down in small groups over different routes. Keran isn’t on this job, thankfully, so Hawke finds himself walking alone, a pleasant change of pace from the last few days where he’d been surrounded by Templars 24/7. With the promise of some action on the horizon, his mind begins to clear from the haze of the last few days. He tugs on his shirt hem, making sure it falls over the bowie knife at his back. In his pocket, his phone vibrates, and he reaches down to hit the volume button and silence it. He’ll check who called later.

Slowly, the squad filters into the abandoned building across the street from the warehouse the Qunari are set to receive their shipment in. V and his goons got there first, but Hawke walks fast when he wants to, and he’s among the first to arrive. He appraises V and the others, then finds himself a spot to lean against a wall where he’s got a good view of most of the building. 

This is supposed to be the place where the Qunari retreat to once they’ve secured the explosives, so once the full squad is there, they retreat farther into the building, waiting for what’s sure to be the advance guard to come and hold the place. Sure enough, ten minutes later, four Qunari make their cautious entrance. V had them pair off and now motions each duo toward a Qunari. Hawke and his mate, a small blonde woman, are assigned to the one last to enter the building. Their Qunari stands next to the door, arms folded, head cocked, watching and listening. They’re on the other side of the building from him, across a large, empty floor, and Hawke knows it would be incredibly stupid to charge forward like that. Not only would their Qunari have advance warning, it would also alert the others to the ambush. Waiting until another pair of Templars starts their attack could prove disastrous as well, as their Qunari might leave his post to help a fellow, and that would leave them in much the same position.

Glancing around, Hawke lays eyes on a side door and grins. He taps his Templar on the shoulder, points to himself, then the door, and then at the main entrance by the Qunari. She works through the plan, points at herself, and tilts her head in question. Hawke mimes a squish with his hands, and she matches his grin. He makes a note to learn her name and creeps toward the side door through the shadows. In his peripheral vision, he can see her moving forward as far as she can without leaving the concealing darkness at the back of the building. With a nod at her, he slips out of the door, closing it as gently as possible while still minimizing the amount of outside light let in, and sprints around the building. 

At the main door, he reaches for the bowie, remembering the last fight he was in with a Qunari. He grimaces, rolls his left shoulder a bit, and opens the door. Or tries to. It’s locked. He pounds on the door with the fist holding the knife, hoping it lends some weight to his strikes and tricks the Qunari into thinking it’s one of his on the other side.

It works. The door opens a crack out toward the street, and Hawke wedges his right shoulder in, forcing the door open wider. It rocks the Qunari off balance, and he flails backward long enough for Hawke to slip inside and pull the door shut behind him. He slashes with the bowie knife as the Qunari regains his feet, aiming for the giant man’s thigh. The strike lands and scores deep, the best Hawke could hope for. The Qunari is hobbled and balancing unfortunately well on his remaining leg when Hawke’s partner barrels in from the other side of the building, body checking the Qunari into the wall. His head cracks hard against cement, and he slides bonelessly to the floor. The woman turns to him and grins fiercely. Hawke matches her as he steps over to finish off the Qunari.

“Hawke.”

“Margitte.” 

“Think we should check on the others?”

“Eh. Maybe if we hear screams.”

Hawke snorts and punches Margitte in the shoulder. She hits back, and they fall into a comfortable silence, taking turns patrolling around the floor without having to talk about it. While Margitte’s off on a round, Hawke cleans off the bowie knife on the Qunari’s clothing, inspecting it for fibers before sheathing it at his back again. The others begin to trickle in from wherever they had gotten to, reporting dead Qunari to V who just nods and dismisses them. The casual way V takes the reports sickens Hawke, even as he himself simply jerks his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the Qunari by the door.

The rest of the night proceeds to be quite boring, as Hawke appears to be stuck with the group not trusted to be in on the actual sting, until V gets a call. He silences the Templars who have started playing a game of Diamondback with a raise of his hand and listens intently to whomever’s on the other end. Hawke looks at Margitte who shrugs and stares at V, waiting for the call to finish. 

“Pack that shit up,” V says, snapping his fingers. “We’ve been called in.” He looks grim, and Hawke understands the other two squads wouldn’t have asked for backup if things weren’t serious. He reaches again for the bowie knife. 

Across the street in the warehouse, it’s a shitshow. Hawke can see bodies littering the floor of the great open space, both Templar and Qunari, and he wonders how many of them are dead. There’s no time to stop and check the first Templar he comes to because a Qunari has seen their entrance and charged straight for them. Hawke spins and dodges away, letting someone else behind him take care of that, and tries to evaluate the situation. He thinks he can see Donnic and T, hemmed in by a few Qunari at the other end of the warehouse. There aren’t many Templars remaining on their feet, and Hawke has to wonder who placed the call. T and Donnic are busy, so perhaps one of the fallen Templars had it in him. Not like it matters now, though.

Hawke makes his decision and sprints toward the Qunari around the Templar leadership. He lets the force of his charge slam the bowie knife home in the side of the center Qunari, then twists the knife and jerks it out. The surprise of the attack allows T and Donnic to get the upper hand on another, while the last Qunari of the group turns toward Hawke, grabbing him by the neck. Hawke has a panicked moment to think this breath might be his last as the Qunari hurls him against one of the posts that dot the room and he blacks out.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“...saved my life. Yours, too.”

“...reckless. Could’ve…killed.”

Hawke groans and the voices stop, one set of footsteps heading away and down the stairs. The other comes closer and a weight settles on his shoulder.

“Don’t try to get up or move yet.” Donnic’s voice. Hawke blinks his eyes open and finds that only one of them seems to be working. Donnic grins at him though there doesn’t seem to be much actual mirth in the expression. “You’ve got a shiner there; it’ll take some time for the swelling to go down.”

He sits on the cot next to Hawke’s, dragging it a little closer to give the illusion of some sort of privacy to their conversation. “I’ll get some ice for you in a minute.”

Hawke grunts and closes his eye again. There’s a massive headache brewing between his temples and the lower half of his body aches. “Happened?” he rasps, his voice thick from disuse.

“Some WWE shit, that’s what happened.” Donnic shakes his head as if he can’t believe it. “Qunari picked you up and spun you like it was nothing. I’m shocked nothing broke. Well...nothing but this.” Hawke opens his eye again as Donnic pulls out a shattered piece of plastic. “Sorry. There’s nothing our techs can do about this.”

Hawke sighs and reaches for the phone. It’s not like it had anything important on it anymore but it still represented a tie back to his other life, his real life, and with it gone he feels somewhat adrift. The plastic feels cheap and brittle in his fingers, and he crushes it a little further.

Donnic winces and pats Hawke on the shoulder, standing up. “Get some rest. You’ll be fine in a few days, so they tell me.”

Hawke snorts and watches Donnic as he heads over to talk to Pax for a minute before grabbing an ice pack from the freezer and a towel from the cabinets and tossing them to Hawke. He then waves and disappears down the stairs. Pax looks over a little hesitantly, his hand hovering near his neck, and Hawke closes his eye pointedly, placing the ice pack on the bruised one. He can practically feel Pax’s sigh of relief from here and rolls his eyes, wincing a little as it exacerbates the headache.

What’s another few days when he still has a few weeks until his shoulder is back up, though he wouldn’t be surprised if Karl extended his forecast at their next meeting after this. Maybe he’ll go get a new phone while he convalesces. He squeezes the phone tighter. Maybe.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It’s as May is winding down, June kicking in hot on its heels, that Karl finally gives Hawke the full thumbs up after their physical therapy session. The look on his face says everything, but then Karl has to go and follow it up with a note on his phone.

_ Don’t do anything too stupid. _

“Thanks, Karl.” He tosses a cheeky two-finger salute at the doctor as he leaves the apartment, rolling both his shoulders because he  _ can _ and he  _ will _ . He’s technically been able to do that for a few weeks but had been cautioned against repeating the gesture too much. But now that he’s out from under Karl’s thumb, he’ll do whatever he wants. All he needs from Karl now is to pass along the word of Hawke’s recovery to T and, presumably, any other Templar leadership he’s in contact with.

For now, Hawke heads back to Donnic’s house, nodding to Ru at the door and taking the stairs to the basement two at a time. Margitte is in the corner, pony-tailed and sweaty, prepping for a deadlift, and Hawke walks over as casually as he can manage, watching. She squats over the bar, her hands in a narrow grip, and pulls up, straightening and holding the bar at her thighs before flipping it up and above her head in an overhead press. Hawke takes this moment to step in front of her and flex with his left arm, making kissing faces toward the shoulder. Margitte drops the bar at the end of her set and cheers, stepping over it to punch Hawke’s shoulder.

“You’re a real boy, now!” She laughs as Hawke punches back, dodging easily, and bounces on the balls of her feet. “Come on, you can’t be that rusty.”

Hawke takes that as the challenge it is and strikes out with a leg so Margitte has to jump to avoid it, jabbing at her while she’s in the air. She blocks, but the lack of ground support sends her toppling backward, though she rolls gracefully when she hits the floor, side stepping for the makeshift boxing ring. Hawke lets her get there unmolested but flies for her the moment she’s inside, a flurry of punches that she dodges and deflects before sending one of her own back under his guard. It lands on his ribs, and Hawke disengages backward. They circle each other in the ring, their faces a mirror of fierce grins and dancing eyes.

Around the basement gym, Templars stop their own workouts, wandering over to watch. One heads upstairs and returns a minute later with followers. Margitte already has a reputation among the Templars for being a formidable sparring opponent to the extent that there are few who will still go toe-to-toe with her, and the story of Hawke’s choking Pax has spread far and wide, to Pax’s chagrin and Hawke’s annoyance. A low buzz of talk settles around the ring. Hawke raises an eyebrow at Margitte who shrugs before sending a few lazy punches at Hawke’s defenses. He slaps them away easily. It has the desired effect, though, and drags the attention of any spectators who hadn’t already been watching toward the ring.

They have at it with a will, then, neither of them holding back. Hawke is interested to see how the Margitte that sparred with him while he was injured is different from the true Margitte, and she doesn’t disappoint, feinting and ducking, never where he expects her to be. It seems she had held back a lot, and Hawke is both annoyed and grateful.

She lands several good hits to his shoulder and ribs, taking advantage of any openings he leaves, some on purpose and some not. They hurt, as one would expect punches slung by a muscular 5’5 firecracker to, but it isn’t debilitating, and the longer the fight goes on, the happier Hawke gets. He’s winded earlier than he would normally be and keeping up with Margitte is getting harder, but his left arm and shoulder work as he wants them to, blocking and striking on command. At this point, he’s not even looking to win the fight, just keep Margitte going as long as possible.

Some whispering at the edge of the ring draws his attention long enough for Margitte to score a solid hit on his jaw, whipping his head to the side. He stumbles and scrambles out of the way of another hit, trying to make out what’s being muttered all around the ring now.

“The Lion!” someone blurts, only to be quickly shushed by their peers. Apparently Margitte understands because she turns her head to look, a mistake Hawke capitalizes on, dashing forward, shoulder down, to catch her chest on the hard bone and jab up at her side with his fist. She comes back to the fight swiftly enough, bringing both fists down between Hawke’s shoulder blades, dropping him to the ground so he has to roll away, jumping back to his feet in time to see her running at him. It takes him a second to figure out what she’s doing, and by then it’s too late. As the crowd around the ring parts to allow one man to pass through, Margitte jumps, wrapping her legs around Hawke’s neck and torso, using the momentum gathered from her run to twist around and down. 

Hawke finds himself face down on the ground, staring at a pair of immaculate boots, Margitte sitting on his back. Silence in the basement then a single person applauds four times. Hawke can feel Margitte tense, but he can’t see far enough up to know why.

“Damn it, Margi, let me up,” he growls. “I can’t fucking see.”

A sharp intake of breath from somewhere around the ring, and Hawke rolls his eyes, annoyed with whatever solemnity seems to have fallen over the crowd. He pushes to his feet, Margitte nearly riding his shoulders the whole way up before she jumps off at the last moment, and stares at the fancy-boot man. He’s perhaps a little shorter than Hawke and a little less broad, but still densely muscled. The sleeves are rolled on his button-up, exposing crossed forearms that look like they could break a stack of bricks. The shirt is a little at odds with the tactical pants and boots he wears, not to mention the gun at his side and knives in his pockets, but the confidence he exudes, and the slight frown on his face, makes it seem Armani. Brown eyes regard Hawke with a mixture of amusement and cold calculation. Hawke doesn’t fight the sneer that reaches his lips.

“The fuck are you?” 

The man raises a dark blonde eyebrow. “I am your Captain. Come with me.”


	32. Chapter Thirty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke and the Captain bond

The Captain leads Hawke through the assembled crowd, and they part like the Red Sea. The silence clues Hawke in, and he realizes this is not a common occurrence. Obviously the Templars know who their Captain is, have given him a nickname, but he wonders just how often they see him at one of the safehouses like this. More than likely, he’s a creature of rumor and legend who occasionally descends to their plane of existence before returning from whence he came. Where did he come from, anyway? Hawke hasn’t been to every one of the Templars’ holdings, but he’s seen a fair few, and nowhere was this man to be found. He would have remembered him. It’s not a bad view from behind, walking up flights and flights of stairs, and Hawke swiftly crushes the small voice inside him that feels guilty for the thought. 

They reach the top floor and yet the Captain still goes upward, climbing a ladder to open a hatch in the roof. Hawke follows, intrigued. They exit onto the roof of the building, the sun sinking toward the horizon, rush hour traffic honking in the distance. Hawke looks around at the roof, at the gravel under their feet and the protrusion that houses the building’s main power supply, and raises his eyebrows at the Captain.

“Couldn’t ask for a more romantic spot.”

Hawke watches as the man’s composure drops for a second, his cheeks tinging red as he coughs, a hand covering his mouth. Then the moment passes, and Hawke is staring at the calm, stern Captain once again. Hawke smirks though he drops it as the Captain gives him a withering stare. He’s gotta hand it to him: the man can  _ glare. _ He gestures to the deserted roof around them and waits for the Captain to speak.

“I wished to personally thank you for the lives of my officers,” the Captain says finally, hands clasped behind his back, eyes unfocused over Hawke’s shoulder.

Hawke’s eyebrows furrow, then he laughs. “Bullshit.” The Captain’s brown eyes snap to Hawke. “At least, that can’t be the full reason, right? Dudes might be important, but they’re still expendable.”

And then Hawke watches as the Captain nearly loses his composure for a second time, this time in wrath, before he brings his expression back in line.

“They are none of them expendable.” He speaks slowly, frost coating every word. Hawke has to consciously refrain from taking a step backward. He does, however, raise both eyebrows. It’s an unexpected show of emotion from the Captain, though he’s not sure precisely what he should have expected in the first place, knowing nothing about the man as he does. All he knows is he has to be seriously high up the chain of command for people to act like they were down in the basement. Based on that, he’d assumed the Captain would be some tight-laced asshole, Hawke’s imaginary, perfect Templar. Well, at least he got the tight-laced part right.

“Right. There still has to be more to this.”

The Captain raises an eyebrow and shakes his head slightly. “Don warned me about you.” 

Hawke snorts. “You should listen to him. He seems like a smart man.”

The hint of a smile before it slips away. “I assure you, he has done his share of inadvisable things. You would have to ask him about them, however, and that is not the reason I brought you up here.”

It takes an effort, but Hawke manages to not make another smartass comment. The Captain turns from Hawke, pacing a few steps away at the edge of the roof to stare out across the Gallows. He rests one booted foot on the lip, leaning an arm on his thigh. From where Hawke stands, the Captain looks almost relaxed, though he’s made an incredible tactical error putting his back to Hawke, and for a moment he toys with the idea of striking, cutting down the Templars’ Captain. It would be startlingly easy, and his hand comes to rest on the knife in his pocket before he’s conscious of it.

He exhales slowly, moving his hand with his breath so it hangs empty by his side. On the scale of bad ideas, killing the Captain while alone on a rooftop after dozens of witnesses saw you leave together is off the goddamn chart. That and if he knifes him now, he’ll lose his best chance at getting what he wants from these bastards: a lead on Malcolm’s killer. It’s the latter of the two ideas that sways him.

Hawke joins the Captain at the edge of the roof, looking over the city. Hightown looms in the distance, the skyscrapers at the city’s center, and he pulls his eyes away, fixing instead on the foundries and industrial complexes of Lowtown. He can imagine the factory workers streaming around the buildings, day shift on its way out and the night crew coming in. Ants in a hill, cogs in a larger machine. He presses his lips together and frowns.

“Why are you here, Hawke?”

The tone in the Captain’s voice is serious, and Hawke regards him in profile as the man continues to stare outward. Hawke can see the tension in his jaw, though the rest of his face appears calm, and wonders idly who else knows the amount of stress this man is apparently under. And out of that number, who truly cares. Hawke has seen firsthand that the Templars care more for their people’s physical well being more than their mental health.

He gestures with a vague hand toward Hightown while encompassing most of the city before them. “Just want to protect what’s mine.”

They stand together for a while longer before the Captain removes his foot from the edge of the roof and stands up straight, facing Hawke. He crosses one arm over his chest, holding the elbow of his other arm as he cups his chin in his hand. The weight of his gaze strikes Hawke like a physical blow, and he does take a half-step back this time. The Captain’s eyes are mild but focused and thoughtful, and chill dread settles in the pit of Hawke’s stomach. Those are eyes that  _ see, _ that perceive on a level deeper than most human interaction. Pinned to the rooftop, the sole recipient of the man’s scrutiny, Hawke can do nothing but pray that the Captain has not made the connection that no one else yet has. 

“I would like to induct you as a full member of the Templar Order.”

Hawke narrows his eyes at the Captain, confused and more than a little suspicious. He remembers well what a full induction meant for Carver. “I’ve heard...stories,” he says, as offhanded as he can manage, “that that includes a serious beatdown for the initiate.”

The Captain’s face sours. “That was the practice of a Lieutenant who is...no longer with us.”

“Dead?”

Perhaps he asks too quickly. Perhaps it sounds just a touch bloodthirsty. Whatever the reason, the Captain’s eyes narrow, and he pauses a moment before answering. “Yes. Alrik was found murdered in a blind alley not more than a year ago.”

Hawke bares his teeth in a savage grin. “Good. He sounds like a sick fuck. I’m glad he’s gone.”

The Captain simply blinks and waits another minute before speaking again.

“Induction consists of a verbal oath to support your brothers and sisters and advance the Order’s interests as relayed to you from me or the Commander. That is all. We have already checked into your background and simply required a trial period to see if you could integrate. You came highly...recommended.”

“Why do I get the feeling that’s a euphemism for, you were warned about me?” Hawke snorts and the Captain’s small smile briefly turns his lips again.

“Well,” he says, “six one way, half dozen the other.” 

The old Ferelden turn-of-phrase hurts Hawke’s heart in a way he hadn’t counted on, and he frowns.

“Are you—”

“Ferelden, yes. From Honnleath.”

“Lothering, though I get the feeling you already knew that.”

The Captain shrugs in acknowledgment, and Hawke just shakes his head. He gets the feeling that the Captain knows almost everything about him and could find out anything he doesn’t already know fairly easily. His stomach twists anxiously, and he realizes with a start that the anniversary of Carver’s death has come and gone nearly two weeks ago, that his missed phone call must have been Bethany reaching out for him. And he ignored her. He swallows and turns away from the Captain, a cold, bitter feeling creeping up through his chest.  _ I’m doing this for you, for us, _ he thinks, and pushes back against his guilt until it’s a manageable size, until he can face the Captain again.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why me.” Hawke gestures at the building below them, at all the people inside. From spending a month with them, he knows that not everyone there is a full member, that some of them have been waiting for longer than Hawke’s been on probation and that all of them care a hell of a lot more than he does when it comes to “advancing the Order’s interests.”

“There are a lot of other recruits down there. Why pick the one with anger management issues?” Because he’s positive that the Captain has heard about the incident with Pax, about the incident with the man who formerly had Hawke’s bunk, about each and every one of the incidents that happened while Hawke was out on mission with T.  It isn’t as though he’s tried excessively hard to tone it down, just to stay barely on the right side of T’s graces.

The Captain considers this for a moment, turning back out to look at the city. “Because it’s rare to find someone who cares as much as you do, who will work to protect others. Your actions saved two of my officers; I know the rest of your squad that day, and I doubt T and Don would have made it out alive had you not been there.” He runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

“I can at least trust you to do what you can, even at the risk of your self.”

Silence stretches between them as Hawke stares, dumbfounded, at the Captain. He crosses his arms, frowning.

“Well, I didn’t fucking  _ intend _ to be reliable,” he mutters. Beside him, the Captain coughs, covering his mouth and coughing again, and Hawke squints askance at him, finally realizing that the man is  _ laughing  _ at him. “Oh, just...let it out, asshole,” he gripes, and the Captain erupts into full-throated laughter. Hawke rolls his eyes and sighs, walking away a few steps, waiting until the Captain begins to pull himself together before returning to the man’s side.

When the laughter abates, the Captain’s smile returns, without fading immediately this time. “The best of us rarely intend to be anything other than what we are.” Hawke doesn’t respond, and before too long the Captain’s face resumes its stoic mask. 

“Don specifically opposes your induction. T is neutral on the matter, and V believes you to be useful. That’s not necessarily a compliment. K has washed his hands of you and said that you are a perfect idiot and thus perfect for the ranks.” The Captain’s face twitches, as though fighting a smile. “I have read the reports each of them have submitted. They paint an interesting picture. A contradictory one. In a perfect world, I’d evaluate you myself—”

“So why don’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why don’t you evaluate me yourself? What’s the rush?”

The Captain rubs the back of his neck. “I am not at liberty to say. But perhaps…” He taps his lips with a finger, coming to some sort of decision. “Yes. Come with me.” He turns on his heel and marches for the ladder. Hawke throws his arms into the air but follows.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The Captain doesn’t stop as he flows through the safehouse, and everyone jumps out of his way once he hits the ground floor and heads for the front door. Hawke swims in his wake, shrugging at Margitte as he passes her. Donnic watches, his arms crossed, lips pressed tight together, and Hawke has to look away from him quickly, can’t bear to see the disappointment on his friend’s face. T glares at him from nearby the door, and Hawke smiles sweetly at him before exiting after the Captain.

Outside on the street, the Captain hasn’t slowed down and Hawke jogs to catch up. The Captain doesn’t set a normal pace until they are several blocks from the safehouse and have turned a few corners. Then he abruptly slows, moving his head minutely as he checks their surroundings. Out of instinct, Hawke does too. He’s not sure what the Captain is looking for specifically, but there isn’t anything out there in the gathering dark that he can see. The streetlamps have turned on in anticipation of the setting of the sun, and the two of them walk through the twice-lit streets as their shadows stretch longer.

Neither speaks. Hawke isn’t sure if a sunset stroll is the Captain’s idea of an evaluation, but something niggles in the back of his mind and he knows this can’t be it. The Captain has to be leading him somewhere, drawing him into, what? A hastily planned ambush? He didn’t have the time; Hawke’s had eyes on him the whole time. Unless it had been planned earlier and the sudden decision on the Captain’s part wasn’t so sudden.

Hawke shakes his head, tossing those thoughts out as best he can to focus on where they’re walking and what’s around them. He hears the rock skitter a minute later and taps the Captain’s elbow, letting his hand linger so it looks like a touch and not a signal to the people following them. The Captain nods and bends his head toward Hawke, who matches the gesture so the sides of their heads touch in an intimate gesture.

“I heard it too,” he says, frowning.

“Left around the next corner,” Hawke murmurs. “There’s an alley not far down.”

The Captain raises a hand as their heads break away, touching fingertips to Hawke’s cheek for a moment. They burn his face, and Hawke ducks his head, as if shy, to avoid them. Then they round the corner and begin walking quicker simultaneously, heading for the alley. They both press against the closest wall, the better to surprise their followers. 

The first of them walks past the alley, and the Captain has to physically restrain Hawke from immediately jerking out after the guy. He must think Hawke is crazy or itching for a fight or just damned impulsive, which he is, all of it, but really it’s that that man, and, as it turns out, two of the others that follow after him, were responsible for dislocating his shoulder and mugging his sister. So yeah, he’s a little less inclined toward rational thought right now.

The Captain only releases his hold on Hawke once five men have passed the alley and they’ve waited a full thirty seconds after. Hawke dashes out of the alley, looking for the men and finding them, stopped at the next street corner, heads turning this way and that. He smirks. Now that he’s healed from their last confrontation, he’s eager to take them on again. It won’t be like last time, where he could barely stand and fight from exhaustion; in his month with the Templars, he’s had regular meals with the others living in the safehouse and his sleep has been generally untroubled since that business with Pax. He suspects them of drugging him at night but can’t prove anything and has grudgingly enjoyed the sleep it’s granted him, in any case.

He sprints toward the group at the corner. One of them sees him coming and points, the rest turning, one of them raising a

“Gun!” Hawke yells, diving to the pavement and rolling the next few yards as the man fires. He jumps to his feet, races the final feet, and uses his gathered momentum to slam into the gunman and knock him to the ground. The man’s head cracks against the stones, and he doesn’t move. Hawke picks up the gun, unloads the magazine, shoots the round in the chamber into another of the thugs’ knees, and tosses the useless weapon aside. The man he shot topples over, and Hawke kicks him in the stomach as he tries to raise himself from his hands and knees.

When he turns from the downed man, who finally finishes his fall to the stone, the Captain has arrived in the melee and is trading blows with one of the men Hawke recognizes as one of his family’s attackers. He growls and turns to intercept, to take the Captain’s opponent from him, when he’s struck in the back. He stumbles forward a few steps before whirling on his assailant, another of the men from his encounter in the alley. The Captain can have his partner, then; Hawke will take the rest.

Behind the man who hit him in the back is another of the men from the alley, and Hawke’s face splits into a snarling grin. The blond man in front backs up until he’s level with his compatriot, feeling a little safer in numbers, perhaps. Hawke doesn’t let him feel safe for long. He rushes forward and leaps into the air, kicking out and down against one man’s thigh to drop him to a knee while smashing his fist against the blond’s face. The jump carries him past the two men, and he lands, twisting back to face them, lashing out with his left leg to keep the one on the ground down as he blocks a blow from the blond. Satisfied the one isn’t getting up yet, Hawke steps forward, spinning around to land the heel of his boot against the side of the blond’s head, knocking him heavily to the ground.

At the sound of a wet crunch behind him, Hawke whirls only to see the Captain standing over the remaining man, fists slowly falling to his sides, blood dripping from the knuckles of his right hand. He glances around to see all five men laid out on the ground, none of them moving, and grins over at the Captain.

“Not bad, ser.”

The Captain raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t match Hawke’s smile, not like Margitte would. Instead, he wipes his hand off on a cloth he pulls from his pocket and shakes his head. 

“We should go.”

Hawke steps back and sends another kick at the man he’d downed, just to be sure he stays there, then shrugs at the Captain.

“Whatever you say. Aren’t you going to have me kill them first, though?” It’s been the conclusion of every fight with the Qunari he’s ever had, at least.

He nearly misses it, but the Captain blanches and turns aside.

“It is unnecessary.”

“Whatever you say, ser.”

Hawke crouches and digs through the pockets of the two men at their feet, pulling out wallets and cell phones.

“What… What are you doing, Hawke?”

Hawke stands, flipping through the wallets and pulling out IDs, credit cards, and cash, before dropping the phones to the stone paving to break them. He saunters over to the other three and repeats the process.

“Hawke.”

Finally Hawke turns to face the Captain again. He pockets everything he pulled from the men, holding the Captain’s brown eyes with his own as he does so. Then he rolls his shoulders and shrugs.

“Bastards did it to me, did it to my sister,” he says, unrepentant, nostrils flaring as he stares down the Captain. “It’s the least I could do to them.” 

“Do you want to kill them?”

The question surprises Hawke, asked in such a mild manner as it is, and he narrows his eyes. “Is this a test?” he asks. The Captain doesn’t react. “It’s a fucking test,” Hawke mutters, dragging a hand down his face.

“No, I don’t particularly want to kill them. I mean, I wouldn’t mind if they were dead. But I don’t feel like doing it myself.” He shakes his head. “I’m not a fucking psycho.” 

After another minute of staring at each other, the Captain nods and gestures down the street. They fall in step together, Hawke following the Captain’s lead as they wend further through the Gallows. Neither of them speaks, and the Captain simply nods his farewell to Hawke when they reach the safehouse again and continues walking. Hawke watches until he's out of sight then pushes the door to the safehouse open. Margitte accosts him immediately upon entering.

“What did he want? Where did he go? Are you in trouble?”

She follows him all the way up to the third floor, hitting his arm and asking questions. He doesn't respond until he reaches his bunk, pulls his shirt off, and collapses down onto the barely soft bed.

“I don't really know what happened or what he wants,” he says, closing his eyes. “He's damn cryptic.”

Margitte hits his legs until he moves them so she can sit next to him. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

Hawke props himself up on an elbow and looks at her intently. “What do you know about him?”

Margitte’s eyes widen and she cackles. “Someone's got a cruu-uush,” she sings, and he punches her in the shoulder hard enough that she has to grab hold of his leg to stay on the bunk. She snickers at the scowl on his face for a few seconds more then shrugs.

“No one knows much about him, really. Came up here from Ferelden’s unit, half-rabid, they say. But he turned into Meredith’s good little lap dog right quick. Doesn’t make him any less terrifying though.” She rubs her hands along her arms. “He’s just got those dead eyes, y’know? And he never talks to anyone, not any of  _ us, _ anyway. Seen him with T and Don a few times but that’s it.”

Hawke grunts and chews over this new information. “Lap dog?”

“There’s a reason he’s her second,” Margitte shrugs. “He’ll never cross her.” 

Second.  _ Her second. _ Hawke grabs Margitte’s arms in his hands, eyes wide as he stares at her. “ _ He’s _ the second in command?”

Margitte snarls, pivoting her arms to break his hold, and shoves hard at Hawke’s chest, bouncing him back onto the bed. “Yes, fuck, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Hawke grimaces his apology, and Margitte huffs in response.

“Why 'the Lion’?” he asks, diverting the conversation to a safer topic.

Margitte shrugs. “No one knows. It came with him from Ferelden.”

Hawke nudges Margitte with his leg until she stands up. He blows out a breath and closes his eyes again. He has a lot of thinking to do. “I'm going to sleep.” 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Early the next morning, Hawke receives a text on his still-new phone. It's an address, just an address, from a number that isn't already in his phone from the last couple weeks. He saves the contact as “Cap” and leaves the safehouse after dressing and snagging a bagel from the kitchen.

Bethany’s number is one of the few he actually has memorized, and he opens a new message to her, staring at it as he walks.  **_I’m sorry,_ ** he writes then erases. He stares at the blank messaging screen and puts the phone away. There’s nothing he can say to her, no words for this, nothing he can do to actually make it right between them. If he texts her, she’ll call. He knows this about her. If she calls, he can’t answer. Even if he did, what would he say? She’d go straight to Aveline if she knew what he was doing, or Fenris, and Hawke isn’t sure which he thinks is worse. It will all be better once this is over, once he accomplishes what he set out to do. And maybe she’ll understand, maybe she won’t, but in the end, she’ll be safer.

Maker help him, he’s turning into his father.

Hawke does a double take when he enters a nice looking neighborhood in the Gallows and checks his phone to be sure it’s still taking him to the address he input earlier. He walks with more care here, among the trimmed shrubs and freshly mown lawns, than he does through the warehouses and ill-lit alleys of Darktown. Gentrification, he scoffs, and eyes a modest two-story house with distrust.

The directions on his phone take him to the middle of the neighborhood, around twisting streets and past cul-de-sacs where normal-looking people are grabbing newspapers from driveways and slowly waking up. The Captain’s house, Hawke supposes that’s what this is, is a ranch-style with a tiny sapling of a tree out front. A very new neighborhood, then, to have a tree so small. The house is painted in muted, inoffensive colors and doesn’t stand out at all from its peers. It is, for all intents and purposes, completely innocuous.

It raises the hairs on the back of Hawke’s neck.

He crosses the lawn, eschewing the paved path that curves out from the driveway, and flings open the screen to bang his fist against the front door. After a minute of waiting, Hawke raises his hand to knock again when the door swings open. The Captain blinks mildly at him and gestures into the house. Hawke enters, his eyes on a swivel.

It’s all very...middle class. It honestly feels as though it could have come straight out of a grocery store magazine for well-to-do housewives. The couch matches the rug in the living room to his right, and the walls are painted a coordinating color that goes well with the throw pillows scattered on the couch and armchairs. The kitchen in front of him looks spacious and well-appointed, deep stains on the cabinets, bright marble on the countertops, stainless steel appliances. Hawke walks through the kitchen, noting the pot of coffee brewed, and begins opening cabinets, foraging for a cup.

“Please, make yourself at home,” the Captain says, amusement coloring his tone.

“He does that,” Donnic replies, and Hawke shuts the cabinet he’d just opened. Through the kitchen is the dining room where Donnic sits, coffee in hand, some papers spread across the table in front of him. They regard each other for a minute before Hawke returns to his quest for a mug. He hadn’t expected Donnic to be here, but he also hadn’t expected the house. Perhaps it was time to let go of expectations.

He brandishes a cup in triumph, finally, and fills his mug from the pot. Donnic and the Captain speak in low voices in the dining room, cutting off as he turns to head their way. Hawke salutes them with the cup and takes a seat at the table, stretching out his legs and flinging one arm over the back of his chair. His eyes dart to the papers, but he can’t make out what they say from where he sits. He sips his coffee and waits for someone else to speak.

The Captain sits next to Donnic and they share a look. Hawke feels uncomfortably like he’s been called in to a conference with his parents and growls low in his throat. In this matter, whatever it is, the Captain seems to cede control to Donnic, his eyes soft and warm. He’s different, here in the house that must be his, at his dining room table.

“This yours?” Hawke asks before Donnic can speak, unable to help himself. He gestures with his mug at the living room and kitchen.

“I live here, yes.”

Hawke snorts into his coffee as he drinks. “Not what I asked, but OK.”

“Cul—the Captain’s living arrangements aside,” Donnic says, casting an exasperated look at Hawke, “there’s a reason we asked you here.”

Hawke gets up from the table, heading back into the kitchen for refill. “Figured. What’s this about?”

When he turns back around, the Captain is pointedly staring at the table and Donnic looks...guilty. Hawke walks slowly back to his chair, sets his cup down, and places his hands on the smooth tabletop, leaning toward Donnic.

“You told him?”

Donnic nods.

“Idiot. How much does he know?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No music rec this chapter, alas. Couldn't find one I liked well enough.
> 
> (We'll see if I can ever get back on my original, chapter-every-Monday schedule... lol)


	33. Chapter Thirty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some things are lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music rec: ["I Lied"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x4ThIf3iU5U) by Electric Century

A small group waits for him outside the safehouse when he returns from the Captain’s around noon, and Hawke slows his pace, recognizing the faces. Samson, the man he’d kicked out of The Hanged Man for hitting on Fenris; Wilmod, the man he’d kicked out of The Hanged Man for making Merrill uncomfortable; and the bartender he’d yelled at from the Brecilian Brewery. They’d gathered a few of their friends (Hawke sighs as he sees Keran’s head ducking down to avoid being noticed) and are strutting about on the stone sidewalk. 

“This should be good,” Hawke mutters to himself, before raising his voice. “The fuck you want?”

The bartender looks up, sneering. “See you’ve managed to make yourself a  _ pet." _

Hawke licks his lips and grins, perhaps overdoing it a little on the leer. He stops walking just inside the man’s personal space. “Jealous?”

The indignant sputtering is worth the punch that gets thrown his way. He could have dodged, stepped back and twisted to the side. But he wants the excuse (“they hit me first”) and laughs as he wipes a hand across his mouth. He’d caught sight of each of them at one point or another, in or around the safehouse, out on jobs, all of them thinking they’re so sneaky, huddling in corners and whispering to themselves. Pah.

“The Captain can do better than you,  _ dog,” _ Samson adds, stepping forward to join the bartender in hitting Hawke. “You’ll turn on him first chance you get. You don’t belong here.”

Samson hits harder than the bartender, and Hawke stumbles backward a few paces before he plants his feet.

“Maybe.” Hawke shrugs, spreading his arms wide before raising his fists. “Luckily the Captain’s unlikely to kick me out, and you have no say in the matter. Guess you’re stuck with me.”

This time he does dodge the punch thrown at him, bending backward before surging forward to ram his knee into Samson’s gut while he’s unbalanced. The man falls to the pavement, wheezing, and Hawke sidesteps to face the rest of the group. Most have backed up a step, leaving the bartender alone out in front.

“Get ‘im, Karras!” someone yells, and the bartender—Karras—gives his fellows a betrayed look before squaring off against Hawke. 

“Holding a bit of a grudge, aren’t you?” Hawke asks, casually batting aside Karras’s first punch and hopping back a few steps, stringing him along just for fun.

“Says the man who joined us ‘cowardly common street thugs’.”

Hawke dodges another blow, smirking as Karras’s face begins to grow red with anger and exertion. “Is that what I said? It’s been so fucking long since I was at your shit bar, I just don’t remember.” He moves back just as Karras releases another punch, causing him to overextend to try and reach Hawke. Smirking, Hawke steps forward to crash his elbow into Karras’s nose. He revels in the scream of pain for just a moment too long, and Karras spins, jumping onto Hawke’s back and clawing at his face and neck. His hands catch on the chain of the crest and grab hold, twisting to cut off Hawke’s airflow. 

Hawke scrabbles at his neck, and when that proves fruitless, attempts to dislodge Karras from his back. He staggers to his knees, his efforts only serving to make him dizzy, and Karras dismounts, putting Hawke on the ground with one knee between his shoulderblades and one boot to his wrist. Karras has to lean close to keep his grip on the necklace, sneering as black spots begin to dance across Hawke’s vision.

“You don’t. Belong here,” he snarls. “Leave.” He twists the necklace further as Hawke opens his mouth to speak and doesn’t let off the pressure until Hawke goes limp. Karras snaps the jewelry from Hawke’s neck, staring at the crest for a moment before pocketing it with a shrug and helping Samson to his feet.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Hawke regains consciousness slowly, aware of a vaguely panicked voice above him. He groans, interrupting whoever it is, and a shadow drops to his side.

“Hey, moron!” Margitte yells at him, and he winces at how loud she sounds. “What the fuck, huh? I kick your ass once and now everyone can do it?”

He groans again, pulling his arms underneath him so he can lever himself into a seated position at least. Margitte squats next to him when he blinks his eyes open, his vision hazy. He can make out someone else standing nearby but with the afternoon sun casting shadows and his brain still getting used to having oxygen again, he doesn’t know who it is. He punches Margitte instead, gratified when she topples over, not expecting the blow. At least he can move alright.

“Asshole,” Margitte mutters, hopping back into her squat and slapping Hawke’s shoulder.

“Where’d they go?” he croaks, wincing as he raises a hand to his throat. When his hand hits bare flesh instead of chain, all the breath leaves him in a rush. Nothing else matters now. His chest constricts, and he bends forward, digging his fingers into his neck. Gone.  _ Gone. _

As if from far away, he can feel Margitte’s hands on him, attempting to pry his fingers loose. 

This can’t be happening. Hawke flounders, dragged under by wave after crashing wave. In one small corner of his mind, he knows the crest is just an object. That losing it does not have any underlying cosmic significance, that losing it does not mean losing Fenris.

_ You’ve already lost Fenris. You just haven’t let go. _

No.  _ No. _ Hawke shakes, his free hand clenched into a tight fist, fingernails digging into his palm and doing absolutely nothing to ground him. He has to get it back, has to…

But he has no strength, no will to move from where he sits, hunched and broken on the stones. After everything, to be laid low by this. He’d laugh if he could remember how.

Hands gently surround his fist, not forcing him to relax, just...holding. The warmth from those hands seeps into his, anchoring Hawke as he closes his eyes and weathers the storm.

He has no idea how much time passes before he opens his eyes again, but the sky is darker, the sun lower than he remembers it. He looks at the hands still around his, nearly expecting...but no, that wouldn’t make sense, he wouldn’t be here. The hands are large, like his own, and pale. Definitely not Fenris. Hawke smothers his disappointment.

He tracks up the arms connected to the hands, eyebrows drawing together as he recognizes the shirt rolled at the elbows. He frowns when he makes it up to the man’s face and sees the concern etched around his eyes and in the set of his mouth. 

“Captain?”

The Captain squeezes Hawke’s fist. “Don’t speak. Whoever attacked you left quite the mark.” Displeasure rolls off him and Hawke flinches. Gentle pressure against his fist again, and Hawke stares in confusion at the small smile on the Captain’s face. 

“Come. Let’s get you inside.”

With the Captain on one side and Margitte on the other, Hawke walks into the safehouse. He growls as his attempt to get up to the third floor is thwarted by both of his crutches and they drag him to see Pax instead. Pax looks just a little smug at the bruising appearing on Hawke’s neck, though it doesn’t affect his examination, and he releases Hawke before too long, assuring the Captain and Margitte, more than Hawke, that he’ll be fine and no permanent damage has been caused.

Hawke has no sooner been seated on his bed by Margitte and the Captain then he’s trying to stand back up. The Captain keeps him down with a hand on his shoulder, though Margitte looks like she’s about to suckerpunch Hawke to sleep.

“I have to see,” Hawke whispers, meeting the Captain’s eyes.

The Captain looks to Margitte who snorts. “Like I carry a mirror?” She pauses then adds, “ser.”

“The bathroom it is then,” the Captain responds with a quirk of his lips. “I believe I can take him from here. Thank you.”

Margitte nods and backs up a few steps, though she doesn’t leave the room until the Captain has Hawke halfway across the floor to the communal restrooms. Hawke could walk for himself, but he finds he appreciates the Captain’s presence, warm and solid and, most importantly, dependable. Even had Donnic not roped the Captain in so completely with his operation, Hawke would have found it difficult to not trust the man after the night he’d spent with him yesterday. It’s dangerous, trusting any Templar, and Hawke knows it, but he’s suddenly  _ so tired _ and willing to lean on the man who has so far shown himself to be, against all odds, a good man.

The Captain stops in the doorway of the restroom, allowing Hawke to continue on to the bank of sinks and mirrors unaccompanied. Mirror-Hawke raises his fingers to the line of a bruise, stretching across the skin of his neck like a garrote, and presses gently to feel the ache. He stands there for long minutes, until his elbow creaks as his arm moves slightly, straining to stay lifted. A sharp intake of breath from the Captain as Hawke spreads his hand to wrap it fully around his throat, but the Captain doesn’t move to interfere and Hawke doesn’t squeeze, just feels his pulse under his fingers, the tendons in the side of his neck, the cartilage under his skin.

Finally, he closes his eyes and drops his hand, gripping the sink with all the force he spared on himself.

“Get some rest, Hawke,” the Captain says from the door. “I will be back in a few days. There’s something I would like your help with.”

Hawke blinks, then nods. “Whatever you say, ser,” he says softly to the sink. He’s unsure if the Captain hears him, but when he looks over, the man’s lips are pressed tight together and that tells him everything he needs to know. The Captain wraps an arm around Hawke’s shoulders as he exits the restrooms, walking him back to his bunk.

And then he’s gone, too, and Hawke is left alone.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Resting may be the most difficult thing Hawke does the next few days. Donnic and T both gather groups to go out and do...something, Hawke’s not sure what, but whenever he demands to be taken with, he’s turned down. He spends most of his waking hours in the basement gym, restless energy fueling his sets. Margitte keeps an eye on him when she’s there, but she’s tapped to go with T early on day two and walks out of the safehouse with an apologetic twist of her mouth. Any time he doesn’t occupy with weights or sleep he whiles away pacing around the rooftop, stopping occasionally at the edges and staring out over the city he can see toward the people he can’t. 

He doesn’t see Karras or Samson or any of their group again and doesn’t tell Margitte who it was that attacked him, not for lack of asking on her part. 

“I’ll handle them,” he snarls at her the last time she asks, his lips curling. She mimes dropping the subject and gets back to kicking his ass in the ring again instead.

The Captain arrives on the fifth day as Hawke finishes his dinner, sitting alone on the edge of the roof. Hawke watches him approach the safehouse, not from the direction of his house, he notes (presumably to ward against potential tails? or perhaps he has simply been somewhere else prior to this), and look around before grasping the handle and opening the door. It takes another ten minutes for the Captain to make it up to the roof, by which time Hawke has stuffed the last of his sandwich in his mouth and is leaning forward, arms on his thighs. He doesn’t bother to stand up and face the roof access hatch or move to a less precarious position.

Hawke can hear the crunch of the Captain’s boots on the gravel of the rooftop and only looks up when one boot is planted next to him. The Captain nods in greeting before directing his gaze out over the city, silent for several minutes. When he does speak, his voice is soft and low, directed outward but pitched so it won’t carry beyond the two of them.

“You are well?”

Hawke snorts, reaching up to touch his neck before rubbing the scar across his nose. “Sure.”

“What happ—?”

“It’s personal.” Hawke sighs. “I didn’t tell Margi, I won’t tell you.”

“And if I ordered you to tell me?”

Hawke twists his head to look up at the Captain, who’s still staring out over the cityscape. “Then I’d tell you to fuck off, ser.” 

The Captain makes a thoughtful noise, but Hawke can see him smile, just a little. 

“I’d intended on asking you to accompany me on a surveillance-gathering mission.”

“But?”

“Pardon me?”

Hawke shrugs. “Sounds like there’s a caveat. Ser.”

The Captain sighs lightly but nods. “The Commander wishes me to investigate a matter personally. I have elected to take you with me.”

Hawke swings one of his legs out, letting it tap back against the building. He shrugs again. “Whatever you say, ser.”

“Then it matters not what I would ask of you?” The Captain sounds genuinely curious, and Hawke swings his leg back over the edge of the roof so he’s straddling the lip. He leans back, placing both hands behind him, and looks up to see the Captain staring back at him.

“Not really,” Hawke says. “Can’t imagine you’d have me do anything worse than what I have already.” He watches the Captain’s lips thin into a sad, disappointed line and hates it.

“I know what I am and what I signed up for, ser,” he says softly. “Better than most.”

The Captain pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a moment. He sighs as he reopens his eyes, the brown careworn and tired. “We received intelligence that a deserter in possession of some...sensitive Templar documents has holed up somewhere on the Coast. I am to apprehend him and deal with the situation.”

_ Kill him _ is what that sounds like to Hawke, though he can’t say he’s surprised at that. He  _ is _ surprised that it sounds like the Captain is seriously considering that as an option. But he simply nods and tilts his head, asking, “When do we leave?”

The look on the Captain’s face holds something of regret. “Now. You have five minutes to pack what you need and meet me out front.” He turns and leaves the roof, leaving Hawke to sit in contemplation for a few seconds before he, too, gets up.

It’s not hard for Hawke to grab supplies; he doesn’t have much. He just makes sure he has both knives attached to his person, shoves a few extra clothes in a backpack, and punches Margitte on his way out the door. The Captain, standing at parade rest nearby when Hawke appears, leads him down a few streets to an incredibly nondescript car, all beige and doors and just like so many other cars on the road. Like Fenris’s. Hawke grits his teeth and peers into the car, giving himself a minute to recover without the Captain’s prying eyes, then looks over the roof to the Captain, one eyebrow raised.

“Just us? Be still my beating heart.”

The Captain rolls his eyes and swings the driver side door open to get in. Hawke tosses his pack into the back and follows suit, immediately adjusting the passenger seat back to fit his frame. He crosses his ankles and folds his arms across his chest, indolent but for his eyes, which carefully track each turn the Captain takes on his way out of the city. They head out the opposite way Hawke had gone with T not much more than a month prior, though it feels like a lifetime ago. A lifetime he’s been separated from the people he loves—

“Seriously, though: just us?” he asks, derailing his own train of thought.

“I know what you are capable of,” is the answer he gets, which really doesn’t answer the question but seems to be the only response forthcoming, so Hawke settles further into the seat to watch the city go by.

It doesn’t take long to leave the city behind them and pick up the highway that runs the length of the coast past Wycome in the northeast and all the way west to Cumberland and beyond. Hawke doubts they’ll come even close to Cumberland, or close to Kirkwall’s outer borders for that matter, but the Captain keeps driving, leaving behind any of the landmarks Hawke’s familiar with, and he’s suddenly not so sure. 

As the sun sets, the Captain grips the steering wheel tighter until by the time it’s full dark he’d have strangled the wheel if it were alive. Hawke can hear his hands twisting on the faux leather and frowns. For such a composed man, he’s really letting the poor steering wheel have it.

“Where are we headed?”

“Hm? What?” 

Hawke’s frown deepens at the distraction in the Captain’s voice. “Where’re we going? I haven’t been out this far before.” 

“Ah, uh, there is a roadside motel not too much farther.”

The Captain falls silent, the only sound in the car the slow murder of the steering wheel. Hawke chews on the inside of his cheek, unsure how to keep him talking, take his mind off whatever’s gotten hold of it. 

“Got any snacks?”

That at least pulls a surprised bark of laughter from the Captain, and he takes one hand from the wheel to gesture toward the backseat. “There should be...something...somewhere,” he says. At least he sounds more amused now than distracted, verging on panicked, as he had earlier. Hawke twists over the center console to root around the backseat and through the gear the Captain has stashed there. His hand closes on a crinkly package of some kind and he pulls back to peer at it in the gloom.

“Ferelden jerky? You sure you’re not trying to seduce me?” The package opening obscures any comment or sound the Captain may have made, but Hawke thinks he heard something resembling a laugh.

“I assure you, I bought that before I met you.”

“Maybe,” Hawke allows, “but you still brought it with you on our little road trip.” He places one hand on the Captain’s bicep, his lips thinning as he feels the muscles there tensed and jerking, and holds out a stick of jerky out with the other. The Captain gingerly takes the jerky in his teeth, pulling it into his mouth bit by bit like a rabbit with a carrot. Hawke pats his arm awkwardly and grabs his own piece of jerky, leaning against the window and idly tracing the bruise around his neck with his free hand. It’s darkened to an angry purple, and some part of Hawke is glad, grateful for the extra reminder of what he’s missing.

“Why do you do that?” the Captain asks, and Hawke jerks his hand away from his neck when he realizes what he was doing.

He doesn’t answer for a while, staring out the window instead. Why indeed?

“Masochism,” he says finally.

The rest of the ride is silent. The motel is a pathetic, rundown thing, one two-story bank of rooms with an office building at their head. No pool. Hawke follows the Captain into the office, needing to stretch his legs after sitting in the car for a few hours. He pokes at the small rack of tourist brochures (“See Mt Sundermount!” and “Tour the Viscount’s Keep!” and “Best Places to Flyfish!”) while the Captain makes arrangements for two rooms. Two?

“One’s fine,” he yells, not looking up.

“Two, please.”

“One!” He glances over at the desk to see the clerk looking confused and the Captain looking weary in a way he’s not seen before. Hawke straightens and walks closer, turning his head away from the clerk so she can’t see his face when he speaks. “I don’t mind sharing, ser, assuming there’s two beds. Makes more sense.”

“A moment, please,” the Captain tells the clerk and rakes a hand through his hair as he turns to fully face Hawke. “I am not an easy man to sleep with.” At Hawke’s raised eyebrow, the Captain reddens, coughs, and looks aside.

“Sounds like a challenge, ser.” Hawke smirks but it doesn’t quite make it to his eyes, and the Captain regards him thoughtfully for a moment before turning back to the clerk and requesting one room with two beds.

“I warned you,” is all he says as they exit the office to grab their things from the car.

The room is on the first level, a requirement the Captain had wrestled with the clerk on. Hawke twitches the curtains closed over the one window as they enter, and the Captain turns on the lights, setting his bag down on the bed closest the door. Hawke throws his on the other. From a cooler in the trunk of the car, the Captain produces frozen burritos that they thaw in the microwave and eat sitting on their respective beds. Hawke flips channels for a while as the Captain takes himself through what looks like a very well practiced bedtime ritual, brushing his teeth and washing his face before setting out clothes from his bag for the next day and packing away the ones he’s wearing. Hawke just scrubs his teeth and strips off his shirt and pants, tossing them on the floor.

The Captain curls under the blankets on his bed, facing the door, and Hawke lowers the volume on the TV a little.

“Want me to turn off the light?” 

“It’s fine.”

“Sure?”

“Yes, Hawke.”

Hawke stares at the TV until his brain turns fuzzy and his eyes start to droop. He double checks the door, sliding the lock open and closed, re-attaching the chain, and shuts the light off before crawling into bed himself. If his breaths are anything to go by, the Captain is passed out cold. Not an easy man to sleep with? Hawke snorts and shoves his head into the pillow, trying to create something halfway comfortable to sleep on.

He’s nearly asleep when the Captain’s panicked shouts jar him fully awake again. He dives for his pants on the floor, stripping the bowie knife from its sheath (stupid to not sleep with it what was he thinking), and is halfway off the bed when the lights turn on.

The Captain stands next to the light switch, shaking, eyes wide, his breaths shallow and uneven. Hawke lowers his knife. He stands fully off the bed, watching as the Captain wraps himself in a thin veneer of OK, waiting until the man has mostly calmed down before he speaks. 

“Ser?”

“Lights on. Please.”

“Sure.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It takes them a week, running down leads and tracking their deserter, sleeping in motels with the lights on, before they catch up with him near the border of Kirkwall and Cumberland, way out in the boonies. Hawke isn’t gentle, breaking the man’s nose and nearly his arm before the Captain intervenes. They get the good cop, bad cop routine going, which mostly consists of Hawke pacing menacingly behind the Captain as he asks questions and cracking his knuckles whenever there’s too long a pause between answers. Once the Captain has the documents he’s looking for in his hands, Hawke knocks the guy out, ties him up, and throws him in the back of the car.

“All your hopes and dreams?” he asks, dusting his hands off. But the Captain isn’t paying attention to him, is in fact staring at one of the pages, his lips parted, eyes soft. He presses the pages to his chest, closing his eyes, and Hawke can hear a whispered prayer of thanks before the Captain snaps the pages back together and strides for the car.

Their ride back to Kirkwall is punctuated by stirring in the backseat and Hawke punching the deserter back into unconsciousness. The Captain drops Hawke off at the safehouse at dusk, on his way to deliver the sorry soul in the back of his car to whatever fate the Templars will deal him.

“I—Hawke, thank you.”

Hawke, on the sidewalk, leans down to look in the car at the Captain. “Any time, ser. You know where to find me.”

“Indeed.” He lifts a hand in farewell and pulls away from the curb. Hawke watches him leave before turning to enter the safehouse. Donnic awaits him just inside and gestures toward an unoccupied corner of the room. When they’re as far away from anyone else as they can get, Donnic leans forward and Hawke, curious, mirrors him.

“You need to call Aveline.”

“What? Why?”

“She’ll tell you. Just...call her.”

Hawke pulls his phone out of his pocket and wiggles it. “I don’t have her number anymore.”

One exchange of numbers later, Hawke drops his pack off on his bunk and heads for the roof. A glance at his phone tells him he has several missed voicemails from Bethany, he recognizes her number, and a ton of missed calls from a few numbers he doesn’t recognize. He dials Aveline.

“Hawke? Thank the Maker, we’ve been trying to reach you for days.”

“Yeah, I was…” Hawke scuffs his foot against the rooftop, “out of town.”

“Hawke, something happened. It’s—your mother, she—”

He stops moving, staring down at his feet. He feels cold.  _ No. _

“Leandra was murdered, Hawke. Your mother is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH BOY, OOOOOH BOOOOOOOY, that chapter, eh?


	34. Chapter Thirty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke grieves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music rec: ["Ambulance"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=82Z-Ck7j3WM) by Eisley

Hawke doesn’t listen to anything else Aveline says. He hangs up and gets off the roof, brushing past Margitte and Donnic, leaving the safehouse. He doesn’t run. Each step is measured, long but not unreasonable strides, and he takes the stairs up from Darktown when he gets there two at a time. He walks the streets of Lowtown with his hands shoved in his pockets, eyes on the sidewalk just in front of him. Shadows lengthen then disappear in the gathering darkness. The streetlamps turn on.

He moves with one purpose to keep him going, one thought: Bethany. His body knows where it’s going. His mind is blank except for  _ Bethany. _

He passes the turn for The Hanged Man and walks on, not even sparing the place a glance. There’s no room for anything or anyone else in his head. He climbs the stairs into Hightown.

The porch light is off when he gets to the house, and he fears Bethany isn’t home, gone to stay with Ella or another friend instead of be within the house where she lived with their mother. He raises a hand, hesitates, tries the doorknob to find it locked. He knocks. The dog barks inside.

He knocks again, maybe she hadn’t heard him the first time, despite the dog. Cheerio heard him, at least.

“Bethany,” he calls, leaning his forehead against the door. “Bethy! Please…”

He nearly falls over when the door swings open. Bethany stands there, still holding the door with one hand, staring at Hawke like she can’t decide if she’s glad to see him or not. Fair enough. She looks aged and worn, tired as hell and overwrought. Tears have left salt tracks down her cheeks that she hasn’t bothered to brush away, and her eyes are accusing blue beams. The dog crouches behind her, not approaching him.

“You…”

“Bethany, I—”

She hits him, letting go of the door to haul back and punch his arm. Hard. He lets her, doesn’t move to defend himself or deflect her blows as she balls up both her fists and pounds on his chest. He only winces slightly when she kicks his shin. She’s crying again, fresh streams down her face, hiccuping softly. In time she begins to slow, then stop, and Hawke wraps his arms around her waist and shoulders as she leans weakly against him, sobbing. Her weight drags them to the floor, and they sit, Bethany inside the house, Hawke on the porch, until Bethany runs dry and curls up tighter within the circle of his arms.

He picks her up gently and kicks the door closed as he crosses the threshold. As he turns for the stairs, Bethany tugs on his shirt with one hand and points down the hallway toward his room and he obeys. There’s an open bottle of wine on the desk, and the sheets of the bed are rumpled. Hawke sets Bethany down on the bed, and she crawls under the covers, snuggling into the blankets and pillows until only the top of her dark hair remains visible. She makes grumpy noises, and Hawke grabs the wine before settling himself on top of the covers next to her, throwing an arm around her as she burrows into the side of his chest. The dog jumps up onto the bed on Bethany’s other side, laying his head over her calf.

Hawke tips the bottle back, grimacing a little at the bitter taste. He’s been wineless since December and the ill-fated Christmas gathering they’d had here. A look at the bottle shows the Aggregio label, and the wine sours in his stomach. He drinks more anyway and does his best not to wonder how Bethany procured another bottle. There isn’t much remaining, and he polishes it off as Bethany’s breathing evens out and she falls asleep. The bottle he drops off the side of the bed, as carefully and quietly as he can, then shifts downward so he can rest his cheek on Bethany’s hair. He sleeps too, eventually, after the wine runs through his system long enough for his already hazy mind to roll the extra distance and drop off.

He dreams, though what about he’s unsure as he jerks awake a few hours later, gasping for air. Bethany shifts in her sleep, and Hawke is glad he didn’t manage to truly disturb her rest. He’s long envied her capacity to actually get a good night’s sleep, and he grits his teeth as he thinks about how many nights she’s been not sleeping well recently. It’s not his fault, not technically, but… He slips off the bed, avoiding the bottle on the ground, and creeps out of the room. The dog watches him go, raising his head before resting it back on Bethany’s sleeping form.

Hawke assumes that the most likely scenario is random violence, though he’ll need to speak with Aveline later to see if she has any details on that. But he can’t discount the possibility that Leandra’s death happened because of the men sent by Cory P. to attack him and Bethany or that it might be connected to his work with the Templars. He doesn’t particularly like any of the options.

Hawke paces through the downstairs, down the hall, through the dining room and kitchen, out to the living room and back, over and over. He pulls his phone out of his pocket to stare at it occasionally, wondering if any of the missed calls were Fenris, trying desperately to remember if the number Fenris had first texted him from nearly a year ago ended in a 2 or a 5...or another digit entirely. On impulse, he picks on the of the missed call numbers and texts back:  **_New phone, who dis?_ **

When no immediate response is forthcoming, he pockets the phone again and pulls open the fridge to see what there is. It looks like the inside of his fridge when Fenris isn’t stocking it with leftovers, and Hawke uses his phone to order way too much delivery from a good Orlesian place down the street, enough to feed the two of them when Bethany wakes up plus another meal or two if they feel like having the same thing three times in a row. He’s not opposed to buying more food whenever they want it; the Templars do know how to reward a job well done, and he’s amassed more cash than he quite knows what to do with currently. Feeding his sister will work, though it doesn’t in the least make up for the last month and a half of absence.

His phone vibrates as he begins his pacing circuit again, and his heart leaps into his throat.

**_hawke u dumbass where have u been r u OK is bethy OK????_ **

Isabela then. He tries not to feel disappointed.

H:  **_I’m with her now. She’s...not OK_ **

I:  **_where have u been motherfucker???_ **

I:  **_sorry_ **

I:  **_where have u been cocksucker???_ **

H:  **_Away._ **

Hawke sighs and leaves his phone on the kitchen island as he paces, ignoring the thing as is vibrates wildly with Isabela’s texting. He can hardly handle her fast and furious style of texting when he’s had a good day, and on a day like today, well, it’s a little much. When the phone stops buzzing, he scrolls back through the messages, skimming for the important bits: she’s mad at him, Varric’s mad at him, she loves him and misses him, Varric’s still mad at him, Fenris is distant.

He turns the screen off and closes his eyes, bending over the island to rest his head on the cool marble. Fenris is distant. What the hell does that even mean? He touches the empty space on his chest where the crest used to lie. 

A knock sounds at the front door, and Hawke drags himself off the island to answer it, tipping the driver generously. Bethany comes down the hall, rubbing at her eyes, Cheerio trailing her like a shadow, and she looks relieved to see Hawke still there. He offers her his best fake smile. They eat straight from the takeaway containers, sitting on the counter in the kitchen, swapping boxes occasionally.

Hawke’s phone vibrates with another message.

**_Next time you disappear like that, you better be dead._ **

Probably Varric. Heartwarming.

V:  **_Call Fenris or something. He’s worried sick._ **

V:  **_Also some blond guy, didn’t leave his name._ **

V:  **_Come by the bar if you want to. I’ll get you drunk._ **

Well, that would be something, at least. He may take Varris up on that, but not now. Right now his priority is Bethany, who’s looking at him curiously over her takeout box. He switches the screen off and places the phone next to him on the counter.

“Varric and Iz,” he says, picking up the container he’d abandoned when the messages came in.

Bethany frowns. “You’re… I tried calling you so many times!” Her chin trembles, and Hawke scoots off the counter quickly, crossing the space between them to grab her shoulders and meet her eyes.

“I know, and I—I should have answered. I’m an idiot.”

Bethany laughs once and hits his shoulder lightly with one hand. “World’s biggest.”

Hawke nods solemnly and pulls Bethany down so he can kiss her forehead, brushing her hair back. “I’m sorry.”

She grabs his face, searching his eyes. “Are you going to leave again?” Hawke bows his head, unsure how to answer her question, and Bethany sighs, curling her arms around his shoulders as she leans forward to hug him. “Oh, brother, what are you doing?”

They retire to the couch in the living room, haphazardly stacking the takeout boxes in the fridge and bringing two bottles of wine with them. They watch Netflix and drink and eventually pass out, snuggled together, a blanket thrown over their legs.

The next few days progress the same way, sleeping when they’re tired, drinking what’s left of Leandra’s stores when they’re awake and eating all the leftovers before ordering new food and calling the one liquor store around that delivers. They don’t discuss Leandra much. Bethany tried, sometime on the second day, while they were scrolling through the Netflix menus.

“She loved you, you know,” she said, frowning and sighing as Hawke curled his lip and wrinkled his nose. 

“I was a problem, not a child,” he replied bitterly, stabbing the button to select a title.

Bethany wrestled the remote from his hand and paused it. “It’s true. She regretted a lot of things with you.”

Hawke snorted and folded his arms over his chest, sinking down into the couch. “Regret is a good word for it. Now play the fucking movie.”

His sister’s lips thinned, and she glared at him for a minute before acquiescing.

Now Hawke paces the estate, up and down the stairs too, though he doesn’t go near his mother’s room. Bethany is still curled on the couch, some kitchen show playing in the background. She watches him as he walks down the hallway to his room, turns around, and comes back out through the dining room and kitchen before heading up the stairs again.

“Go get some air.”

Hawke doesn’t respond until he’s back on the main floor, stopping next to the couch. “What?”

“Go.” She shoos at him. “You’re going to go crazy in here. Take a walk, go home for a while, I don’t know, something. We’ll be here when you get back.” Cheerio looks up from his spot at Bethany’s feet, boofs softly, and lays his head back down. Well, that’s decided then.

“I’ll—” He closes his mouth, licks his lips, and heads for the front door without finishing his thought. He’s not sure where he’s going when he steps out, just that he needs to go and keep moving for a while. He ambles around Hightown until all the clean-cut, upper crust people start to trickle home from their jobs. Then he takes the stairs to Lowtown, jogging slowly at first, then breaking into an all out sprint as he nears home. It’s not that he’s happy to see the red house, standing there the same as he left it. He’s not even very happy to  _ be  _ home, but even with the memories and associations it has, it’s still a more comfortable place to be than his mother’s house.

The front door is locked when he tries it, and that’s odd because he’d swear he left all the doors unlocked when he left. He kicks up the rug and grabs the spare key.

The house is clean.

Or, rather, cleaner than he left it. The drywall has been swept off the floor, though the holes remain in the wall. The counters are mostly clear, over a month’s worth of mail stacked on the kitchen table, sorted by category: credit card offers, bills, ads. The bills have been opened, and Bethany’s neat hand has written the date they were paid. His couch has been patched from where he tore it, and all of the stools and chairs are back at the island and around the table. 

He does not deserve this angel of a sister.

He tips the shades on the front window so they let in a little of the early evening sun and calls Aveline.

“I went to see Bethany,” he says when she picks up, and she accepts it as the apology it is for hanging up on her. “What can you tell me?”

Aveline sighs on the other end. “Not a lot, I’m afraid. Bethany filed a missing persons for Leandra around a week ago after she didn’t come back from visiting the Harimanns. They are under investigation, but so far the evidence doesn’t indicate they had anything to do with it.”

Hawke begins pacing around the first floor, back and forth in front of the window then around the kitchen and back. “Who found her? Where?”

“We don’t know who; it was an anonymous tip called in. She was...left in the back of an alley, Hawke.” He doesn’t realize he’s growling until Aveline says, “I’m sorry.” That shuts him up.

“Any other leads?”

“We’ll have more to go on once the autopsy is complete. Bethany authorized it since we couldn’t reach you.”

Fair enough, he supposes. “Can… Can I see her? The body, I mean.”

A long pause from Aveline, then she sighs. “The body’s already been identified, but...I should be able to get you in, seeing as you’re family. Come by tomorrow; I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Ave, I—”

His front door swings slowly open.

“Hawke? Hawke, what’s going on?” Aveline calls as he drops the phone from his ear and pulls the knife from his pocket. He half crouches next to the couch, prepared to jump the home invader. The door closes, as slowly as it opened, and Hawke gapes.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he tells Aveline and tosses the phone behind him onto the couch.

Fenris stares back at him, looking at least as shocked to see Hawke as Hawke is to see him. Hawke quickly pockets the knife again. Neither of them speak. Fenris’s green eyes, so familiar and so missed, dart across Hawke’s body, lingering on his neck before moving on. Hawke notes the cast on Fenris’s right arm and frowns. They both look away. 

Hawke clears his throat and passes a hand over his hair. “Uh, hey,” he says to the floor.

“Hey.”

Silence reigns again, then they both speak at once:

“Fenris, I—”

“Hawke, I—”  

Fenris’s lips curl and Hawke huffs a laugh, gesturing for Fenris to continue just as Fenris motions to Hawke. They share a nervous chuckle, and Fenris scuffs at the floor with a shoe. 

“What, uh, what happened?” Hawke asks finally, pointing to the cast. Fenris looks down at it, scowling, and taps it gently against his leg.

“Dan,” he says. “Or so I assume.” He shrugs, not looking up from the white plaster. Hawke can see the names of their friends scrawled on the surface and what looks like an aborted attempt at a rude drawing, probably by Isabela. “I am surprised it took him this long to send someone else.”

“I’ll kill him,” Hawke mutters, glaring at the cast like he could telepathically harm the person who caused Fenris that pain. Fenris looks up, eyes a little wide, lips parted. Hawke meets his gaze, fierce and not the least bit contrite.

“I ever meet him… Motherfucker’s gonna regret a lot of things before I’m done.”

“Hawke…” Fenris’s voice sounds raw, and Hawke honestly can’t tell how Fenris feels about that statement. But he does know how  _ he _ feels, and he hasn’t felt anything so right in a while.

“Aveline would have to arrest you,” Fenris says, and Hawke nearly laughs.

“Worth it.”

Hawke can see the line of tattoos down Fenris’s throat bob as he swallows. “I—” But he doesn’t finish.

Hawke presses his lips together and makes a decision, rounding the edge of the couch and sinking down onto it, moving his phone to the coffee table. He waves an arm above his head, inviting Fenris to join him. 

“Fuck but I need a drink,” he says as Fenris comes around to the far end of the couch. Fenris smiles just a touch and raises a finger, heading back out of Hawke’s view. He returns with a bottle of wine and a beer, holding the latter out to Hawke, who raises one eyebrow but takes it anyway.

“I did not have this in my house when I left.” He slams the bottle cap off on the edge of the coffee table and drinks, emptying nearly half the bottle in several long pulls.

Fenris watches, gingerly seating himself on the couch and leaning over to set the wine on the table. He drags the corner closer to him so he can reach it from where he sits, folds his hands in his lap as best he can with the cast, then unclasps them again to grab the bottle and drink.

“I… Bethany…” He raises his right hand to rub his nose, scowls at the cast, puts the bottle down, rubs at his nose with his left hand. “I thought you might… When I heard about...your mother, I thought that perhaps…

_ "Kaffas! _ ” Fenris snatches the bottle from the table and drinks again, avoiding Hawke’s eyes. Hawke finishes his beer, and Fenris makes a sizable dent in the wine bottle before he speaks again.

“I had hoped you would return.” Fenris says this so quickly and so quietly that Hawke nearly doesn’t hear. He’s still not sure he heard properly. He doesn’t even have the words to respond.

“I am sorry about your mother.”

Hawke’s heart hurts, physically aches in his chest, and he reaches out a hand, making grabby claws at the bottle of wine. Fenris passes it over, and Hawke takes several large gulps of it before releasing it back to Fenris.

“Thanks,” he whispers. Fenris drinks, nods, and passes the bottle to Hawke.

They empty the bottle that way, going back and forth, and when Hawke is drinking the dregs, Fenris gets up and returns with a second and third. He opens one of the bottles, drinks, and exchanges bottles with Hawke, setting the empty one on the coffee table. 

Fenris is still wearing a long sleeved shirt, even in July, though the sleeve on his right arm has been pushed up to accommodate the cast. Hawke can’t see which cuff Fenris is wearing on his left wrist, though he desperately and foolishly hopes it’s the red one. He passes a hand over his neck in as subtle a motion as he can make on the fast track to drunk. It wasn’t as if he could blame Fenris, if the man had finally chosen to cast the thing aside. He just...finds he doesn’t like the idea.

Halfway through the second bottle of wine, Hawke scoots a little closer to Fenris, in order to more easily pass the bottle, of course. Fenris tucks his legs up underneath him and settles back against the couch instead of perching on the edge of the cushion. Outside, the sun has set. They finish the second bottle in silence, and only as Fenris is opening the third does Hawke speak again.

“‘S’my fault… I should have been there.”

Fenris finishes opening the bottle. “There is nothing you could have done, Hawke,” he says, his eyes on the bottle as he hands it over.

Hawke grabs the wine, coughing as he drinks too quickly. “I should have done  _ something, _ ” he insists.  _ "Anything. _ Should have been here. ‘M trying to save my family, not lose it!”

Fenris accepts the bottle back and stares at it, holding it in his hands until Hawke reaches over and tugs it away again. Hawke ends up drinking most of that bottle, curling up around it when he finishes and slowly falling over. His head hits Fenris’s lap and he sighs, burrowing his face into Fenris’s thigh.

“Missed you.”

Fenris smiles, small and sad, as he rubs the fingers of his left hand along Hawke’s scalp between the rows of his dreadlocks. “And I you.” Hawke hums, closing his eyes.

“Will you be here when I wake up?” he asks minutes later, when Fenris is sure he’s already fallen asleep. Fenris’s hand stills on Hawke’s head. “Please...don’t leave.” Hawke hates the way he sounds, needy and childlike, hates that he can’t stop himself from pleading. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter and flips over on the couch to press his face in against Fenris’s flank.

Fenris freezes for a moment, then carefully lays his right arm down Hawke’s back and his left around Hawke’s shoulders. “I will stay.” A small whine escapes Hawke, and he wraps an arm around Fenris as best he can. 

“Good,” he breathes, relaxing into sleep. “I need you.”

He wakes when the sky begins to lighten, feeling oddly bereft. Sometime in the night, Fenris must have gotten up, because there’s a blanket thrown over him and no Fenris beneath him.  _ Stupid _ , he thinks. Of course he left. Hawke buries his face in the blanket, curling his large frame into a tiny ball. But…

He raises his head, sniffing the air. Coffee. Shifting on the couch, he groans, cradling his head in one hand as he makes his way slowly toward vertical. At least there’s coffee. He’s not sure  _ why _ there’s coffee, but he isn’t going to look this particular gift horse in the mouth. He just grabs a mug and fills it, leaning against the kitchen counter and sipping at the very hot brew.

The front door opens and Fenris comes through, a couple small bags in his hands. He looks startled then chagrined to see Hawke in the kitchen, his lips twisting as he shuts the door and places the bags down on the island.

“I should have known the coffee would wake you. I apologize.”

Hawke tries his best for nonchalant, shrugging and turning to get a mug from the cabinet for Fenris. “Shouldn’t apologize for coffee.”

Fenris smooths the bags down as he empties them, laying breakfast sandwiches, muffins, and fruit on top of the bags, before rounding the island to get coffee. Hawke heads for the food, orbiting the island opposite Fenris so their paths don’t cross. 

“You have work today?” He looks over the sandwiches before picking up one that looks like it has bacon on it and taking a bite. Fenris grunts an affirmative as Hawke catches him mid-sip. Hawke hmms, his conversation topics exhausted, and absently kicks out a stool so he can sit at the island. After a brief hesitation, Fenris joins him, pulling his stool a little to the side, away from Hawke. 

“Will you be alright?”

Hawke shrugs, pulling a muffin apart. “Sure, not a lot to get over.”

“Hawke…”

Hawke stuffs half the muffin in his mouth. Fenris frowns.

“She was a bitch, what do you want me to say?” Hawke asks around a mouthful of muffin.

Fenris snorts, though he doesn’t laugh outright. “That though your feelings may be complicated, she was still your mother?”

“Not at the end, she wasn’t. And not when it mattered.” Hawke finishes off the rest of the muffin before he speaks again. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Fenris. But I can’t mourn someone who’s been a decade dead already.”

The look in Fenris’s eyes says he disagrees though he says nothing, and they finish eating in silence. When Fenris gets up, he gathers the breakfast trash and tosses it, then brings Hawke his phone from the coffee table.

“It was buzzing a lot last night,” he says. Hawke’s face shuts down and he palms the phone so the screen isn’t visible. Fenris sighs, rubs his forehead. “I didn’t look.”

He gathers his things from beside the door as Hawke refills his coffee cup, and turns, one hand on the doorknob. “Hawke—”

“Will you come back?”

Fenris blinks at Hawke, looking at him stand in the kitchen of his house, mug between his hands, eyes on the couch instead of Fenris. “Would you like me to?” Hawke swallows, hands tightening on the mug, and he grits his teeth though he doesn’t otherwise move or speak. The moment stretches between them until at last Fenris sighs and turns the doorknob.

“Please.”

The word is so soft he nearly doesn’t catch it. Hawke still isn’t looking at him, but Fenris can see the doubt and fear and regret on his face. 

“Very well. I will be over after my appointment.” He watches relief flood Hawke’s face and leaves before Hawke tries to mask it.

Hawke sinks back onto his stool as Fenris closes the door, abruptly robbed of strength. He rests his forehead on one arm, breathing, before checking his phone. He has five messages from the Captain and two from T. The first message from T is a time and place. The second says  **_Your dereliction has been noted._ ** The Captain’s messages begin stern, timestamped after T’s second message, and grow concerned, his last reading  **_Don told me. I’m so sorry._ ** Hawke deletes them all and heads upstairs to shower.

The station feels unusually quiet this early in the morning, and the desk sergeant who greets him looks as though he hasn’t quite woken up yet. But he pages Aveline quickly enough, and she materializes to wave Hawke down a hallway and into her office where two other people are already standing.

“Hawke, do you remember—”

“Yes. What are they doing here?” Hawke growls, though he knows, he  _ knows _ and he doesn’t want it to be true, doesn’t want to hear— 

“We’re here to investigate a possible link between your mother’s death and Cory P,” Trevelyan says, her voice not without sympathy. 

“The fuck could he want her dead for?!”

Aveline closes the door.

“We’re not sure, that’s why we’re here. He’s been targeting your family for months. Even so, if he’s behind this it’s a clear escalation from any previous attacks. We’d like to offer you and your sister protection while we investigate.”

Hawke waves a hand. “I don’t need babysitters. But...Bethany…”

Trevelyan nods and elbows Dorian, who pulls out his phone to send a few messages. “We’ll get a detail organized and on it right away.”

“I—Thank you.”

Dorian raises a delighted eyebrow and opens his mouth, and Trevelyan elbows him again. “Of course. We’ll get out of the way now.” 

Once the Inquisitors have left, Aveline gives him an apologetic look .”I’m sorry, Hawke; they showed up just before you did.”

“It’s OK, Ave, just...take me to her?”

Down in the basement, Aveline has a few words with the morgue tech, who pulls out one drawer of many along the back wall, says, “ten minutes,” and leaves. Aveline claps Hawke on the shoulder. “I’ll be right outside.”

The morgue is silent and creepy, and Hawke doesn’t move to approach the sheet-covered body of his mother. He just stares at it, crossing his arms tight across his chest. Seeing the body can help the grieving process he remembers the Lothering Police telling them all when Malcolm died. He’s not sure exactly how it’s supposed to help, but they had all trooped in to the morgue and viewed the body, ashen and lifeless. Bethany and Leandra had burst into tears, and Carver had looked a few steps removed from that himself. Hawke had stood, an arm around his sister and mother, stony faced and dry eyed, a rock for the family to cling to. He’d done the same at the funeral. He’d punched Alistair when he had offered to let Hawke cry on his shoulder.

And when Carver died, he again held his mother and sister, comforting them as best he could. He and Aveline had a few drinks together but otherwise didn’t talk about it, too busy wrestling their own internal demons.

And now… Bethany had been alone when she identified the body. Nothing he does now can make up for that. He pulls his arms in tighter, hunching his shoulders, staring at the body.

“Fuck you.” He huffs, frees one hand, and jabs a finger toward the sheet.  _ "Fuck you. _ You think losing your husband was a good reason to abandon your  _ children? _ The twins needed their mother,  _ I _ needed my mother! I wasn’t ready for all that to fall to me, making sure the twins stayed in school, making sure everyone got fed. I shouldn’t have had to grow up that fast, should have been able to stay in school, join the army, serve my country. It should have been  _ my choice! _ ”

He paces to the other side of the drawer and back, and resumes staring at his mother’s cloaked body. “I’m not sad you’re gone. You haven’t been around for years. There’s been some…demon masquerading with your face for ten years.” He sighs, scrubs his hands over his face, and peers through his fingers. “Bethany’s in right state, you know. Good job with that. Couldn’t have waited to die until I finished what I was doing? Yeah, figured.” 

Hawke groans and slowly sits down on the floor, feet flat, arms wrapped around his knees. “You’d have liked Fenris if you’d given him a goddamn chance. There’s no one quite like him. He’s sharp, funny, smart. Smarter than me, that’s for sure.” He laughs. “But I fucked that one up good, so...guess you don’t have to worry about that from beyond the grave. I’ll protect Bethy though, best I can. She’s all I have left now…”

From where he sits, here on the floor, he almost feels young again, like any minute now his parents will pick him up and swing him around and tell him everything will be alright, that they’ve banished the monsters. “But I’ve gotta do this thing… Dad never told you what he did, but I’m gonna fix it. Gonna make them stop hurting our family. I—” Hawke chokes, raising a hand to his mouth as pressure builds behind his eyes. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you,” he whispers, biting down on a knuckle, “but I’ll make sure Bethy is safe. I promise.”

His ten minutes are up, he’s sure, and he looks through the window on the door to see Aveline restraining the morgue tech. He stands, wiping at his eyes, looking down at the body again. 

“But fuck you.”

When Fenris joins Hawke on the couch later that evening, he doesn’t say a word as Hawke curls up in his lap again, this time stone cold sober.


	35. Chapter Thirty-Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things that need to be said are said

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music rec: ["Warmth"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yKWZsLV5VgA) by Bastille

Fenris leaves late in the morning, regretfully citing work, and Hawke wanders around his house for another half hour afterward, drinking coffee, until he bores and walks to Hightown. A mildly surprised Bethany answers the door, and Cheerio bounds around him, barking, finally seeming pleased at Hawke’s presence. He stoops to pet the great hound, feeling some tension leave his body at the contact. Cheerio sits and sets to licking Hawke’s face with some enthusiasm in appreciation of the show of affection.

“Where’d you put his lead?” Hawke asks, standing up and looking around the foyer. Bethany points to a hook behind the coat rack, and the dog settles into an excited wiggle when he sees Hawke go for it. With a little smile, Bethany turns to head back to the living room. Hawke stops her with a hand on her arm.

“Join us.” Cheerio gives a few convincing barks, his stub tail thrashing his whole back end back and forth as he looks between his humans. Bethany laughs.

“Fine. Let me put on some pants.”

They let Cheerio lead them, wandering aimlessly around the Hightown neighborhood in pursuit of new smells. Hawke hasn’t thoroughly explored all the twisting residential roads around his mother’s house, never had any need to, so he gets turned around fairly quickly. He still knows how to get back to the house at least, one partition of his mind concentrated on remembering that important piece of information even if he wouldn’t know how to get anywhere else from where they are.

The dog is having a great time, sniffing everywhere he can and marking new territory. Hawke smiles fondly at the beast, a bit of longing pinging his heart. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed Cheerio until now. He wishes things had been different, that the Templars didn’t take up so much of his time. It isn’t fair that Bethany had been forced into adopting Cheerio from him, and he fully intends on taking the dog back eventually, but he knows she’s a good surrogate dog-mom in the interim. If it had to be anyone, he’s glad it was Bethany. 

He moves a little closer to her as they walk and wraps an arm around her shoulder, kissing the top of her head when she leans against him.

“He behaving?”

“Oh yes, he’s an angel dog.” Bethany smiles. “Only chewed on the corner of a rug this time. Mother was…” She stops, covering her mouth with a hand and drawing in a shaky breath. “Well, she was still pissed.”

Hawke snorts and that seems to unlock something in Bethany, and she giggles, wrapping both around around Hawke’s middle.

“She was so pissed but we….ahaha, we hid the chewed corner of the rug under a plant!”

At that, Hawke laughs and the dog joins in with delighted barking. They stop walking, Bethany’s giggles robbing her of breath, and laugh together, bending over on the sidewalk, the dog licking at their faces delightedly. 

When Bethany collects herself, they keep walking. It’s another hour and half of meandering through the neighborhood before either of them expresses a desire to return home. The late morning is gorgeous, all bright sun and light breeze, clear skies for miles. It’s a sharp contrast to the grief and pain and roiling emotions of the last few days. Bethany throws the windows open when they get back to the house, perhaps in an attempt to bring some of the weather’s positivity into the den of sorrow they’d created. She orders sandwiches delivered too, and they take it to the backyard when it arrives, brushing the dirt and debris off the patio furniture so they can sit and eat like civilized people while the dog watches closely for falling food.

“When’s the last time you guys used this?” Hawke asks, kicking at another of the chairs. Bethany hums and chews on a french fry thoughtfully.

“Probably Midsummer, two years ago. Mother had me invite everyone from the gallery so she could have an excuse to cook without feeling guilty.”

Hawke tries to remember but can’t, for the life of him, picture anything about the get-together. “Was I there?”

“Only for a little. You were dating that tiny little girl from Circle Mercy, Suri or something.”

“Surana!”

“Yes, that’s the one. Whatever happened with her, anyway?” Bethany leans back in her chair, holding her sandwich, still half in its wrapper, in both hands.

“You mean, other than mother made pointed comments the whole time we were there about how she looked too thin?” He remembers now: it had upset Surana so greatly that Hawke had escorted her from the party and they’d crashed The Hanged Man instead, after wandering around her favorite park for over half an hour.

“No, no, I mean after that. Why’d you break up?”

Hawke sighs and takes a bite of his sandwich to stall for time. “Why do I break up with anyone?” he asks, meaning it rhetorically, but Bethany answers him anyway.

“It’s one of two reasons, I figure. One, you get a perverse sort of pleasure out of making me think you’ve finally found someone who can actually make you happy and then getting rid of them; or two, you like sex but are terrified of commitment and drop anyone you get too comfortable with.” She folds her arms and looks at him, raising an eyebrow, and Hawke realizes she expects a response to that. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Obviously I don’t like dashing your hopes.”

“So you admit that you’re a commitment-phobe?”

“Bethy…”

“It’s a simple yes or no question, brother.”

Hawke doesn’t answer, instead shoving some fries in his mouth and looking over at the dog, who’s found a nice bit of shade to nap in. Bethany follows his gaze and lets him sit in silence for a few minutes before speaking again, her voice soft.

“Is that why you haven’t tried to get back together with Fenris?”

Hawke just about chokes on his food.

“Because I think he’d be open to it, if you tried.”

_ What do you know about it? _ is what he wants to ask, but it comes out as splutters.  _ How could you even know? _

“It’s the way he talks about you,” she says, understanding anyway. “He’s come over to the house a few times since May. Brought me wine, made sure I was doing OK with you gone.” She smiles, just a small curl of her lips. “I get why you love him.”

“I don’t—” Hawke starts to protest but cuts himself off with a strangled groan, dropping his face into his hands and sinking to lean against the table. Bethany rubs his shoulder. 

“I’m glad,” he says finally, “that you and Fenris…” He gestures with a hand as he sits back up. “He needs a sister.”

“I know.”

They watch some cheesy C-movie on Netflix about knights and dragons before Hawke mutters something about going to see the rest of his friends so they can see he’s OK. Bethany nods graciously and sees him to the door.

“I think he needs you too, though,” she tells him, kissing his cheek and shutting the door in his surprised face.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“Get me drunk.”   


He tolerates the hug from Isabela, who practically flies out from behind the bar to embrace him when he walks through the door, and nods a greeting at Bull.

“Can do, sweet thing,” Isabela tells him, slipping back to her post and grabbing bottles. “Drunk in one or drunk in five?” 

Seeing as it’s only just becoming evening, Hawke flashes five fingers at Isabela who gives him a thumbs up and caps the shaker. Varric comes out of the office, climbing up onto a stool next to Hawke and patting his arm.

“Another one of whatever that is for me.”

Isabela pours their drinks, and Hawke and Varric clink glasses before drinking. Varric doesn’t say anything about Leandra, just chats idly about how The Hanged Man has been, complains a little about having to do the books himself again, and sketches out the details of the newest story he’s been thinking about for his storytime at the library. Hawke just listens and drinks, nodding here and there. Sometime during Varric’s story, Zevran appears, claiming the other seat next to Hawke. He chatters about a very nice pair of boots he recently acquired, waxing poetic about the leather, the smell and feel, as Isabela supplies Hawke’s second drink. She adds flavor text to Zevran’s tale, describing the epic quest they went on around Kirkwall to find leather that stood up to Zevran’s standards.

Hawke leans on the bar and lets his friends talk to him, their words and presence a comforting wash against his senses. He’s missed them, he finds, as he laughs at a dirty joke Isabela manages to slip in to the story. Seeing them nearly every day for years, he’d taken them for granted, a fixture in his life that didn’t change. And sure, some things still haven’t changed, like the way Isabela and Zevran bandy their words back and forth, the sultry sneaky way Isabela has of talking that, if you don’t know her well, sounds like she doesn’t care, and the dad-friend vibe Varric has going on. One thing  _ has _ changed though: the way they approach him. It’s a subtle thing and makes Hawke wonder if he’s imagining things. Imagining the way Isabela’s eyes avoid his more often than not, the micro-hesitation before Zevran lays a hand on his arm as he speaks. He downs his third drink quickly. He’s not sure if the change is a result of them not knowing how to deal with him after his mother’s death or if it’s awkwardness stemming from his month and a half absence from their lives. He wouldn’t blame them either way.

As Hawke starts working through his fourth drink, Varric pats his arm again and heads back to the office.  Bull walks the floor, and Zevran and Isabela slowly turn to talking more to each other than together to Hawke. He waves them his go-ahead when Isabela stops talking and stares at him, as if asking permission. It wasn’t as though he’d intended on a serious social engagement when he came here; he’s at the bar to get drunk, he just happens to know some of the people. His phone vibrates in his pocket, and his heart flip-flops. 

Cap:  **_You will be returning, yes?_ **

Hawke’s stomach sours. He has every intention of returning to the Templars, but he also can’t ignore the fact that his little sister needs him. Eventually, though...eventually he’ll have to.

H:  **_Give me a few days._ **

Cap:  **_You mean a few more._ **

H:  **_Yes, fuck it. I can’t abandon my sister_ **

Cap:  **_...I understand._ **

Cap:  **_I can hold things for another day or two. After that…_ **

H:  **_Ruthless fucking bastards. I’ll be back OK?_ **

The Captain doesn’t respond to that, though Hawke didn’t expect him to. Perhaps he’ll regret it later, when he swims his way back to sobriety, but he can’t find a fuck to give at the moment. 

Isabela swaps his empty glass for a new, full one, and Hawke sets to it with a will. He wonders briefly how he's getting home but dismisses the thought. Varric won't let him walk like this, he knows, and the relief that flows from that knowledge annoys Hawke. He shouldn't be relieved he won't have a chance to meet thugs in an alley, that's cowardice. Growling, he finishes off the drink and slams the glass on the bar, gesturing to Isabela for another one. 

She walks over, rests her chin on the bar top next to the glass, and says, “that’s five.”

“So make it six.”

Isabela straightens and places a hand on her hip. “I said drunk in five. That’s five. You’re drunk.”

Hawke frowns. “Can get more drunk,” he protests.

“I’m sure you can, sweet thing, but,” she jerks her chin at the door, “time’s up.”

Hawke doesn’t understand until he feels a warm hand on his shoulder and swings his head around to see Fenris half-smiling at him.

“Let me take you home, Hawke.” Fenris wraps his left arm around Hawke, his strength keeping them both upright as Hawke sways without the bar to lean on, pressing his face against Fenris’s hair.

“Thank you, Isabela. Is he—”

“His tab’s settled with Varric, don’t worry your pretty little head. Just text me, alright?” 

“I will. Thank—”

“Yeah, yeah, just get the big idiot home safe, OK?”

“I will.”

Fenris guides Hawke out of The Hanged Man and around the corner to where his car is parked, and Hawke squints up at the street lamp.

“Fenris?”

“Yes, Hawke?”

“It’s...night?”

A low chuckle. “Yes, Hawke. It’s nearly 10.”

“Huh…”

Fenris chuckles again and nudges Hawke into the passenger seat of the car. Hawke goes willingly, scooting down in his seat until he can rest his head on the center console. He hums happily when Fenris brushes a hand down his cheek before starting the car. The sound of the engine and vibrations of the moving vehicle relax him and he sighs, only to have Fenris shake him gently.

“We’re here.”

“Jus’ got in the car,” he mumbles, snuggling down on the console. Fenris snorts, and Hawke hears him moving around and a car door shutting. Then Fenris’s hand is wrapped around his bicep, hauling him up off the console and halfway out of the car where he readjusts, settling one of Hawke’s arms over his shoulders and pulling until Hawke stumbles out and onto the sidewalk. Fenris kicks the car door shut, and they walk up the lawn to get to the front door. As Fenris holds the screen door open and searches his pockets, Hawke leans forward and twists the handle on the front door, almost falling over onto the floor when Fenris nearly lets him go in surprise. 

“You left your… Of course you did,” he sighs, maneuvering them around the corner and to the couch. Hawke flings himself from Fenris’s grasp when he sees the couch, bouncing as he hits the cushions and giggling. His mirth sobers when Fenris turns and heads for the door.

“No, wait, Fenris, don’t—” He’s half off the couch, though the world spins around him, one hand reaching. Before he can rise fully from the couch, and likely tip over, what with the way the world is wiggling and everything, Fenris is there, gently pressing him back down. Hawke goes, wrapping both his arms around Fenris’s.

“I just need to lock my car,” Fenris says, leaning over to brush his lips against Hawke’s forehead. “I will be right back, I promise.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, I promise.”

Hawke lightens his grip on Fenris’s arm, rolling onto his side as Fenris gets up. He watches the door after it closes, fighting against the droop in his eyelids, waiting. It’s only when the door opens again that he sighs and lets them shut, listening to the sounds of Fenris moving around the house, something hitting the table with a dull thump, cabinets banging quietly open and closed, the soft suction of the fridge door. Hawke practically purrs when he feels Fenris’s hand on his head and lifts up obligingly so Fenris can sit down. He tucks an arm under Fenris’s leg, tossing his other arm across Fenris’s lap as he snuggles against his thigh.

“I want this forever.”

“Forever is a long time, Hawke.”

“Yeah.”

A quiet snort. “Alright.”

Hawke smiles and drifts off to sleep.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

There is something to be said for the middle of the night as a kind of liminal space between two worlds. One day ends and another begins in the same span of hours, the clock winding down and counting up. Nothing feels quite real. Hawke jerks awake, breathing heavily, eyes darting around, and it takes him a moment to remember where he is and why his head is resting on something warm and squishy. Fenris looks down at him, frowning slightly, his face lit only by the screen of his phone.

“Good morning,” Fenris says.

Hawke groans and sits up, holding his aching head. “Time is it?”

“3:24 am.”

“Fuck.”

“Mm.”

Hawke rubs his eyes, groans again, and looks at Fenris. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

Hawke pushes himself off the couch and ambles into the kitchen, moving on years of muscle memory to turn on the light over the sink and get the coffee machine chugging away. Fenris follows when the coffee begins to drip, and they sit at the island, Fenris on his phone, Hawke staring at the coffee slowly filling the pot.

Hawke busies himself gathering mugs when the pot approaches full, squinting against the harsh light of the refrigerator to see if any creamer has magically appeared for Fenris. It has, and Hawke rears back in surprise before he leans forward, peering at the bottle. He squints at it but pulls it out nonetheless and places it on the island, setting a spoon next to it, then fills both their mugs and brings them over. Fenris smiles gratefully as he shakes the creamer and flips the cap, pouring some into his mug. He stirs, leaving the spoon in when he takes a sip.

“Where’d...that come from?” Hawke asks, waving a hand at the bottle.

“I brought it.”

Hawke furrows his eyebrows. “When?”

“Last night.” 

Last night...is mostly hazy, at least around drink four or five, and Hawke groans into his coffee cup as he drinks.

“Please tell me I didn’t do anything incredibly stupid.”

“You...don’t remember?”

“I remember…” Hawke closes his eyes and rests his elbows on the island, “that you’re still strong and that you drove me home? But yeah, that’s about it.” He scrubs a hand across his face and looks over at Fenris.

“Ah. Then in that case...you only did normal stupid things.” Fenris smirks.

“Why do I bother?”

“I do not know.” Fenris chuckles as Hawke buries his face in his coffee cup.

Hawke gets up to refill his mug before too long, topping off Fenris’s while he’s at it. He leans back against the kitchen counter, watching Fenris pour a bit more creamer into his cup.

“Have you slept?”

Fenris pauses his stirring then resumes, carefully studying the island between them. “Some.”

“Tonight?”

“...No.”

Hawke nods and sips his coffee. He’s not sure he’d be able to sleep in Fenris’s shoes either. In fact, he’s only certain  _ he’s  _ sleeping because whatever the Templars had been giving him is still working its way out of his system. He’ll be back to his normal nightmares in another day or so, he can tell with the way his sleep has been the last few days. It’s almost enough to make him want to head to the safehouse now, but he’ll hold out another day. He can do that much.

“I had a nap yesterday,” Fenris offers, and Hawke nods again. That’s good at least, though it means Fenris hasn’t had a full night’s sleep the last three days and it’s all Hawke’s fault. He hadn’t intended on bothering Fenris with this, had simply wished to be with his sister. Not like it’s really anyone’s business but their own anyway, a family affair, not anything public, nothing to be shared. With their family down to just the two of them now, Hawke realizes he has to be just a bit more careful with how he handles himself with the Templars. It was always a fine line to walk, between joining for information and tipping his hand, but his razor’s edge just got a lot sharper if he’s not expendable. 

Fenris raps his knuckles against the island, and Hawke startles and blinks at him.

“There you are,” Fenris says softly, and Hawke huffs, folding one arm across his chest as he drinks.

“Where did I go?” he asks before his eyes widen, recognizing the words. The sad smile on Fenris’s face says he remembers too.

“I do not know.” Fenris whispers the words. He sounds choked and turns his head a little to the side, avoiding Hawke’s gaze. Hawke’s mouth runs dry, and he has to place his mug on the counter behind him lest he drop it.

There’s something fragile between them, hanging there in the air, and Hawke barely breathes, afraid to shatter it. He’s at a loss here: he doesn’t know what Fenris wants, why he’s here, or where things stand. And he doesn’t know how to ask. He’s afraid to ask. Afraid that Fenris will confirm all the things he already assumes, terrified that he’s stayed out of pity instead of kindness. 

He wants to step forward, to reach out and take Fenris’s hands, so tight around his mug, to hold them in his own. He wants Fenris to kiss him and grab his neck and  _ anchor _ him within the love he’d felt back then but been unable to express.

He grips the edge of the counter behind him instead.

“Fenris… I’m sorry...you got hurt.”

It’s not what he wants to say. He wants to say ‘I’m sorry for leaving. I’m sorry I wasn’t around when you were attacked. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.’ But it will have to do. It’s all he has right now.

Fenris fixes his eyes somewhere just past his cast and presses his lips together. The fingers of his left hand rub against the mug as he grips it, the plaster on his right hand bumping gracelessly against the ceramic.

“It is not your fault.” He scowls at Hawke’s snort. “It’s not. Only one person deserves any blame for what happened, and that is Dan. The situation would not have occurred were it not for him.”

“But if I’d been here—”

“Then you may have been injured as well.” 

“I don’t care,” Hawke grumbles. “You’re—” He halts, unable to think of just what Fenris is. He knows what Fenris was, knows what he’d like him to be in the future, provided there  _ is _ a future, but it’s… Well, it wouldn’t make sense to call Fenris ‘important’ after the last half year, would it? Never mind that’s how Hawke feels, especially now, with Fenris again so close to him.

He can read hope in Fenris’s raised eyebrow and mumbles, “my friend. You’re...my friend.” It’s insufficient, doesn’t encompass everything he wants it to, but the word is as close as he’s likely to get for a while. 

“I don’t like to see you hurt.”

“Nor I you, Hawke.” Fenris’s eyes level with Hawke’s neck, and Hawke rubs self-consciously at the barely visible bruise there. “What happened?”

“Met some old friends.” Fenris is silent, merely raising his mug to take a sip, and Hawke sighs. “Fine, I got cocky, OK? Ran into a few people holding grudges and assumed I could take them. They—” Hawke hesitates, uncertain if revealing the fact he’d been wearing the crest at the time, and that it was stolen, would serve to push Fenris away or bring him closer and not wanting to say in case it was the former. But he hasn’t, somehow, made it this far in his life by not speaking the truth.

“They stole it.” He clenches his jaw and looks down, grasping the edge of the counter again, the muscles in his neck pulsing. He mouths ‘I’m sorry,’ his voice not cooperating, though he knows the angle is too off for Fenris to have a chance at reading his lips. It needs to be said anyway. 

Fenris’s bare feet appear in front of Hawke’s, stopping mere inches away, and Hawke jerks in surprise, stiffening as Fenris reaches, slowly, toward his neck with his left hand. Hawke swallows, suddenly very aware of the rapid cadence of his own heartbeats and how loud they sound in the early morning stillness. With infinite tenderness, Fenris tilts Hawke’s head up, exposing the full line of his throat for scrutiny. His fingers brush lightly from jaw to collarbone then deliberately trace the bruise across the front of Hawke’s throat. Hawke shivers, breaths speeding up.

“You were still wearing it.”

Hawke can’t see Fenris, holding his head where it is, and his inflection holds no clues to pick up on. Fenris’s fingers linger still on his neck. Hawke closes his eyes and sighs.

“Of course.”

The fingers leave his neck, and Hawke almost whines at the loss of touch, drifting forward minutely. Fabric rustling piques his curiosity and he opens his eyes, dropping his chin to look at Fenris, who’s tugging at the sleeve on his left arm. His right hand is clumsy, fingers dropping the shirt as much as grasping it, as he works it up and over the piece of leather around his wrist. The red leather. Fenris pulls until the shirtsleeve is halfway up his forearm, the cuff fully exposed.

Hawke stares. It’s rude; his mother always told him not to stare, but he can’t help it. Confirmation of what he’d hoped and feared, and he doesn’t know how to react, doesn’t know what it means. So he stares as Fenris holds his arm out, as though for inspection, green eyes fixed on Hawke’s face, waiting. Hawke releases the counter behind him, carefully taking Fenris’s hand between his own, not looking up. Resting Fenris’s palm in one hand, he runs the fingers of his other hand down the lines of Fenris’s tattoos until he bumps into the leather, tracing around the cuff in either direction. He hesitates before resting his fingers flat on the leather.

“You—”

“Of course.”

Hawke hears the amusement in Fenris’s voice and meets his eyes, sees the quirk of his lips for an instant before he leans forward, rushing to close the gap between them. He kisses Fenris, not quite hard enough to be desperate nor soft enough to be entirely chaste, one hand threading through the hair at the base of Fenris’s skull, before realizing what he’s done and disengaging. But Fenris doesn’t let him pull away entirely, fumbling with his left hand, grabbing Hawke’s shoulder first, then his neck, to hold him still so he can return the kiss. Hawke moans, wrapping his other arm around Fenris’s waist to bring their bodies together. An answering sound from Fenris goes straight to his head, and he feels dizzy. He breaks the kiss, head spinning too much to stand, canting sideways before sliding awkwardly to the kitchen floor, Fenris’s hand on his neck the only force that controls his descent.

He hangs his head, still weaving somewhat, though not much thanks to Fenris. Fenris, who is now crouched on the floor beside him, calling his name. Hawke scoots a foot to his left and leans against the side of the pantry where it juts out from the rest of the cabinets, flashing a thumbs up to Fenris before cradling his head in his hand. Fenris frowns and stands, leaving Hawke alone on the floor for a minute, returning with a glass of water. He holds it out until Hawke takes it and drinks, then refills the empty glass and sets it on the floor beside Hawke, squatting on his haunches close by.

Hawke pats the floor next to him, nearly knocking over the water glass in the process. “Sit,” he says. “You look like a damn vulture.”

Fenris snorts but complies, propping his shoulder against the cabinets as he stretches his legs out toward the island. Hawke’s hand sneaks over until it’s able to lightly touch Fenris’s.

“Have you been drinking?”

Hawke laughs and Fenris bumps his hand against Hawke’s.

“Water, Hawke.”

“Ah. ...No.”

“And the last time you ate?”

“Lunch?”

Fenris sighs and pushes off the floor, grabbing his phone from the top of the island. “Hope you like Antivan,” he mutters, jabbing what looks like a speed dial and pacing to the back door to place an order. 

“It’s the only place that delivers this late,” he says by way of explanation when he seats himself next to Hawke again. Hawke just grunts, sips from his water glass, and rests his hand next to Fenris’s.

By the time the food arrives, Hawke has polished off another glass and a half of water and is feeling stable enough that he could get up and sit at the island if he wanted to. But Fenris stays near him on the floor, and Hawke is loathe to move and lose that closeness. It happens anyway as Fenris pushes himself up to answer the door, awkwardly signing the receipt from the driver with his left hand. He heads for the island with the food, arching an eyebrow at Hawke when he raises one hand and makes grabby gestures without getting up. Fenris rolls his eyes but sets the bag of food down on the floor next to Hawke and settles himself down in his previous spot.

“You are a child,” Fenris informs Hawke as he unpacks the bag, handing a few containers over.

“Yeah, but you love me anyway.”

Both of them freeze. Hawke looks intently at the floor in front of his feet, his eyes wide. Where the fuck had that come from?

“Mm,” from Fenris, and the bag rustles as he moves it away. He clears his throat. “You, ah, you should eat. It will help.”

Hawke still doesn't move until Fenris rests his hand on the back of his neck, squeezing lightly.

“Eat, Hawke.”

So Hawke eats, a little woodenly at first, loosening up as the hot, spicy food warms his insides. By the time they polish off the last of the rice, Hawke feels almost like himself again. A little awkward still, but better. There is, unfortunately, no way that Fenris will forget what he said; the man’s memory is damn good. Hawke drains his water glass, and it’s a testament either to how much he’s had already or to how distracted Fenris is that it isn’t refilled immediately. Instead they just keep sitting, Hawke with his knees pulled up, Fenris with his legs flat on the floor, the hands between them close but not touching. 

Finally Fenris pulls up his right leg, leaning his cheek against his knee as he turns to look at Hawke. His eyes dart down to the side before fixing on Hawke’s chin.

“I know what you’re doing, running with the Templars.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Hawke keeps his gaze fixed ahead of him, staring at the wall on the other side of his house. 

“Yes, you do.” Fenris sounds tired. “Anders told me what you did. What I can’t figure out is why. I have tried. Many nights I’ve sat up, wondering...worrying. But I can’t think of a single reason you would willingly join the same gang that murdered your brother.”

Hawke clenches his jaw, swallowing hard. “It’s complicated.”

“Then explain it to me, Hawke. I want to—I need to understand why you’ve left.”

A fierce light burns in Hawke’s brown eyes as he swivels his head to stare at Fenris. “And will  _ you _ explain why  _ you _ left?”

“I—” Fenris licks his lips, looks away, then meets Hawke’s eyes. “Yes. I—You deserve to know.”

Hawke blinks, taken off guard. He’d expected that to be the end of it, the subject dropped. Fenris hadn’t shown any interest in explaining before, though to be fair, Hawke supposes he hadn’t been in a place to listen, either. 

“I, uh, OK, do you—should I—?”

Fenris gives him a small smile, covering Hawke’s hand with his. “Go ahead.”

“And you’ll...when I’m done?”

“I promise.”

Hawke nods and gets off the floor, motioning to Fenris to stay put. He picks up the journals from where he left them on the kitchen table, shoved to the side, and places them next to Fenris before dropping back down himself. A few of them he flips open, handing them to Fenris to read. 

“My father,” he says as Fenris skims, “did some stupid shit, turns out.” He sketches the details as best he can, how Malcolm had been desperate enough to accept a loan from a shark, how their family had moved frequently, how they’d been tracked and followed every step of the way until the day Malcolm died. He explains how meeting Larius had prompted him to look through his father’s journals to see if the connection was real, how he’d discovered it was, and how he couldn’t find any related information about a Cory P anywhere no matter how hard he looked. 

“And I don’t have the power or resources to find him, but they do. It’s...not a good situation, I know, but it’s the only one I have. They are...at least mostly what I expected.”

“Why did you not tell me? I could have helped. I can find much that is hidden on the Internet, and I still have a few contacts in Tevinter.” Fenris hoists the journal where Malcolm writes of the Tevinter connection.

Hawke sighs. “I wanted… I wanted to keep you safe. You’ve already been attacked in your own home because of me. I couldn’t let that happen again. I thought—” and he gestures to Fenris’s arm, “but it seems no matter what I do, I can’t prevent the people I love from getting hurt.”

It’s mostly a relief, finally spilling everything to Fenris, as though sharing this piece of his history, his present, makes it easier to bear. There is, apparently, something to be said for a burden shared, though he’s still wary of sharing  _ everything. _

“And...have they been able to help you find what you’re looking for?”

Hawke wraps both arms around his knees, his face twisting in a grimace. “I’m still too new for that kind of favor.” Though, he thinks, the Captain would probably help him out if he asked. He just would rather not take advantage of whatever relationship they’ve built by demanding he look into something. His stomach knots up at the idea, and he frowns.

“Soon, though, I think.”

He doesn’t tell Fenris any more about his time with the Templars, about the people he’s killed, about Margitte and Pax, T and Don, about the Captain. There are some things that Fenris doesn’t need to know, some bricks that he would rather not throw on the boat of their recently patched relationship. He can feel its frailty as they sit in the predawn gloom underneath the sole kitchen light. Maybe with time they’ll be able to sail that boat again, make it seaworthy. But until then, he can’t take that risk.

Fenris nods, closing his eyes. “Do you have to go back?” Hawke can see him steeling for the answer he knows is coming and hates himself for it.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

Fenris’s breath escapes in a hiss from behind his teeth, and he rotates his head downward against his knee, staring at the floor. “They cannot allow you more time to mourn your mother?”

Hawke shrugs. “It’s not like I get paid time off, here.” Fenris growls, glaring up at Hawke out of the corner of his eye, and Hawke raises his hands. “Just telling you how it is.”

“You make light of it.”

“And what else should I do, precisely? Complain ceaselessly about the situation I put  _ myself  _ in?” Hawke shakes his head. “I’m just trying to get by the best way I can until I can get out.”

Fenris sighs but doesn’t otherwise respond. It’s another few minutes before he speaks, raising his head to study the corner of the island.

“Dan is actively seeking entry to Kirkwall.”

The subject change gives Hawke the feeling of whiplash, the revelation stunning him into silence. He’s not sure how to respond, and from the way Fenris worries at his lower lip, it doesn’t look like he knows how to proceed either. 

After another beat of silence, Hawke says, “shit.”

Fenris convulses, tucking his head back against his upraised knee, and Hawke reaches out for him, stopping when he realizes that Fenris is  _ laughing. _ Laughing so hard tears drop onto his lap and he nearly falls over, but Hawke grips his arm and keeps him upright until the laughter subsides. Fenris wipes at his eyes with his left hand, says, “shit,” softly to himself, and snorts. Abruptly he sobers, shifting his position so he’s angled toward Hawke, his legs tucked to one side.

“That night, that phone call… That’s when I found out. My therapist, she was contacted by someone building a corruption case against Dan. But they...they need me.” He blows out a breath and runs his left hand back through his hair. “Dan is smart, cautious. He’s been paying people off and likely destroying any damning records he has access to. They won’t catch him at anything if they search his office or home.”

“And you?” Hawke asks. “Why do they need you?”

Fenris laughs once, a sharp, cold sound entirely devoid of mirth. “I was...instrumental in many things Dan did to secure his power. I saw and heard a great many things in my time with him. My testimony would go a long way in the case. However, they believe that Dan seeks to come to Kirkwall in order to bring me home,” he spits the word, “or to silence me.” 

Hawke growls low in his throat, but Fenris continues on. “They intend to use me as bait to arrest him. I did not—I could not knowingly put you in a position where you could get hurt.”

“And I don’t get to choose for myself?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Hawke huffs, and Fenris cracks a small smile, shrugging. Instead of responding, Hawke hauls himself to his feet, stepping carefully over Fenris to refill his water glass. He drinks half of it at the sink, tops off the glass, then comes to sit back down. He offers it to Fenris, who declines with a raised hand, before setting it far to the side so it isn’t between them.

“So,” he says, placing his back against the pantry. He tucks up one leg, resting his arm on it. The other he extends toward Fenris, letting it stop just shy of Fenris’s curled legs, nearly touching his knee. “That’s some shit.”

Fenris raises an eyebrow at the understatement. “Indeed.” 

“I...can see why you left, Fenris. I understand, now. Back then… Well, I said some fucked up things.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I was an ass and I—”

“You were hurt,” Fenris interrupts. “I understand. I could have handled it better.”

Hawke snorts. “I could have, too. I… Damn it, Fenris, I never wanted to be him, and the things I said that morning, and later, I…” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

Fenris watches him for a moment, then cocks his head slightly and shifts his leg so it bumps into Hawke’s. He sits forward, reaching with his left hand to grasp Hawke’s where it lies in his lap.

“Thank you.” 

Hawke just blinks at the hand wrapped around his own, then up at the green eyes peering so intently at his. His eyebrows draw together so hard it hurts his face, lips parting slowly.

“What?”

Fenris’s hand squeezes his. “Thank you. Your apology...means a lot to me.”

Hawke rotates his hand so he can thread his fingers through Fenris’s. He nods and drops his gaze to look at their hands twined on his leg, gripping Fenris’s hand tight.

“I’ve missed you,” he tells their hands. His free hand taps his chest then grips the back of his neck. “Feels...empty without you.”

“Scoot,” Fenris says, and Hawke jerks back, his eyes wide. He can’t move anywhere, with the bulk of the pantry behind him, but Fenris apparently isn’t interested in that. Instead, Fenris shoves at Hawke’s leg until he folds it up and out of the way so Fenris can crawl between Hawke’s knees and sit, back to chest. He rests his head directly under Hawke’s so Hawke has no choice but to lay his chin on soft, white hair. After a moment, Hawke wraps both his arms lightly around Fenris, who shifts closer, turns his cheek flat against Hawke’s chest, and tugs one of Hawke’s arms tighter around himself.

The passage of time slows to a crawl as they sit, folded around each other, on the floor of Hawke’s kitchen. Outside the window, the sky begins to lighten, the deep blues of night giving way as the sun rises. Hawke ducks his head down and to the side, pressing his cheek to Fenris’s nose in an attempt to ignore the fact that the sunrise means Fenris will leave sooner rather than later. He’ll be leaving himself too; he can’t put off his return to the Templars much longer. He just has to figure out how to break it to Bethany.

Dark clouds turn pink turn white as the sun crests the horizon, and the sky darkens again, just lightly, to its daytime color. Hawke shuts his eyes against the mounting evidence of another day, his arms tensing a bit more around Fenris. The cast on Fenris’s right arm presses against his side, but Hawke wouldn’t move it for anything. Fenris’s left arm, crossed over his body, rests on Hawke’s, his thumb stroking idly across Hawke’s bicep.

“Fenris?” he mutters, not moving his head.

“Yes, Hawke?” Fenris whispers in his ear.

“Before I go...can I get your number again?”

Fenris chuckles, his breath warm on the side of Hawke’s face. “Only if you promise to stay in contact, as much as you’re able to, considering.”

“I promise,” Hawke says, raising his head to press a kiss against Fenris’s forehead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow you guys, these last two chapters have just been really intense to get through! But here we are on the other side, and in my educated opinion, we're over halfway to the end. Crazy!
> 
> If you like this particular brand of crazy, or want to yell and scream at me about the chapter for any reason, good or bad, join me on [tumblr](http://stitchcasual.tumblr.com)! You can also prompt me there or listen to me talk about this fic or just sit back and enjoy the mix of fandoms my brain throws out.
> 
> As a reminder, all the music recommended at the beginning of chapters these days can be found [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/itzasolstice/playlist/7tReO2XKyXXiyWGH2DRjf9) on my Spotify playlist. It's in chapter order up until the current posted chapter, and gets rearranged a few days before the next chapter posts.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me! I love all of you <3


	36. Chapter Thirty-Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a few things come to light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note there are a few new tags on this work and proceed accordingly.
> 
> Music rec: ["Just Don't Let Go Just Don't"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=beVhG_8ZCAA) by Hellogoodbye

Fenris leaves again in the morning, but it’s with a lighter heart that Hawke lets him go, holding onto his left hand tightly, feeling Fenris squeeze back. He doesn’t say anything, neither does Fenris, but they hold each other’s gaze for a minute before looking away, as if on cue, Fenris opening the door and stepping out smoothly.

Hawke tips the contents of his discarded coffee mug into the sink, tossing the rest of the pot and Fenris’s cup, too. He brews a fresh batch and sits at the kitchen table, resting his hands on the journals before cracking one open and starting to read. As far as he’d gotten with his work in these, he still hasn’t finished them, and if something in these things can somehow help the Inquisitors in their investigation of Cory P’s involvement in his mother’s death, he’ll gladly let them have it. He’d still like to take his vengeance himself, rather than through intermediaries, but at this point he just wants the whole affair to be over with, no matter how that happens. The safety of his family, the small piece of family he has left, is more important.

Around mid-morning he packs it in, heading out of the house and down to Darktown. He’s careful to take a route that doesn’t lead him past any of the Templar safehouses he knows about and keeps a sharp eye out. He’d rather not be seen and dragged back before he’s damn well ready to go himself. At least this place won’t have any Templars, he knows, as he pushes open the door to Anders’s clinic. The woman behind the front desk looks up at him and her eyes widen, hands fumbling for something behind the high top of her desk.

“I’m here to see Alistair,” he says, just as the man himself runs out of the back.

“Lirene, what—Hawke?!”

Hawke gestures to himself as if to ask who else it could be and suddenly finds himself plastered with 180 pounds of blond Ferelden, hugging him tightly. He pats Alistair on the back a few times, not knowing quite else what to do, then just waits it out with his hands at his sides, letting Alistair hold on for another minute of increasing impatience with the situation. He’s about to forcibly remove him when Alistair lets go, backing up a step and clasping Hawke’s shoulder.

“You’re alive! Not that I thought you were dead, really, but the Templars, Garrett? Have I taught you nothing?”

Hawke glares, first at Alistair, who shuts up immediately, then at the woman at the front desk, who squeaks and looks anywhere but at him. “Not. Here,” he growls and marches off down the hallway. Alistair hustles after him, getting in front to open an appropriate door before Hawke can choose one himself.

He steps into an examination room, sterile white and blinding, turning around and leaning against the small counter. Alistair hops up on the exam table, swinging his legs gently.

“So, is this a social call, or are you here to seek my expertise as an excellent former-Templar?”

Hawke snorts at that and shakes his head, folding his arms across his chest. “Neither.”

“Okaaaay.” Alistair favors him with a raised eyebrow, the imperious one that Hawke knows comes from his father’s side of the family, whether he likes it or not.

“How did you—?”

“Know you’re running with the Templars now?” Alistair shrugs. “Doctors talk. Especially when one of them is dating the one a certain someone takes physical therapy with. Anders told me after he learned. Said I should know what kind of person you really were.”

Hawke snorts. “Learn anything new?”

“Nope,” Alistair says cheerfully. “Other than you must be as desperate now as I was then. But that’s not why you’re here, is it?”

Hawke shakes his head, staring at the door, and takes a deep breath, psyching himself up to say part one of what he came here to say.

“She’s dead.”

“Who’s—”

“Leandra. She’s—some Tevinter asshole had her murdered for something Malcolm did.” He’s always used his parents’ first names with Alistair, some byproduct of distancing himself from everything that followed in the wake of his father’s death, he supposes. “Bethany’s an orphan.”

Because if he’s honest with himself, he’s felt like an orphan for ten years. 

“Garrett, I—”

Hawke holds up a hand to forestall any further comment from Alistair, whose legs have stilled and who looks like he’s about to get off the exam table and come hug Hawke again. He doesn’t look away from the door, can’t look at Alistair and see the pity on his face. He can’t handle that right now.

“It’s why I’m,” he gestures out at Darktown. “I know their network is vast; I’m going to use it to track the bastard down. I’ll make him pay somehow. But…” He swallows and his voice loses its hard edge. “If something happens to me, I need you to look after Bethany.”

“Garrett…”

“Please.”

He closes his eyes, using the illusion of privacy to pull himself together so that when he speaks again, his voice is brusque and cold, closer to his natural tone than his last words.

“Just tell me you’ll do it, Alistair. I need to know before—I need to know.”

Hawke opens his eyes, stares at Alistair until the man throws his hands up in the air and sighs.

“Fine, I’ll do it. On one, no, two conditions.”

Hawke knows that’s a lie, knows that Alistair will protect his baby sister no matter what, even if Hawke refuses his conditions, but he rolls a hand for Alistair to go on anyway. Humoring him for a few more minutes is the least he can do to say thank you, after all. 

“Condition the first,” Alistair says, holding up a finger. Hawke rolls his eyes at the overly dramatic way Alistair brandishes the digit at him. “Tell me what you know about this Tevinter asshole.”

“I’m not letting you he—”

“Just tell me, Garrett.”

So Hawke sighs, re-crossing his arms as he lays out the story for Alistair. In less detail than he’d described it to Fenris, however, but Alistair hardly needs to know that. He paints the broad strokes: the loan, the moving, the attacks, the deaths. And then he stops, tilting his head at the expression on Alistair’s face, at the way he’s holding his body, stiff and unmoving, at the shallow way he’s breathing that nearly makes Hawke think he’s stopped breathing at all. It’s not  _ that _ intense of a story.

“Get out.”

“What?”

“I said, get out, Garrett.” Alistair is off the exam table and standing in front of Hawke in a heartbeat, gripping his arms tightly. “Get out, run, go anywhere, just…” He trembles, and his fingers cut into Hawke’s biceps painfully. “Just take Bethany and  _ run." _

“What the  _ fuck? _ Alistair,  _ what do you know?" _ He breaks out of Alistair’s hold, uncrossing his arms and switching their positions, grabbing Alistair’s shoulders and shaking. The man is white as a sheet and obviously terrified for reasons Hawke cannot yet understand.

“You need to tell me.”

“He's ruthless, Garrett; he won't stop until your whole family is dead.”

“Alistair, what—?”

Alistair pulls away, shaking his head. His back hits the door, forcing him to stop, and he just stares past Hawke, his eyes unfocused. He’s still shaking, wringing his hands together, and trying, and failing, not to hyperventilate. 

“He’s—fuck, Garrett, he’s the reason I left the Wardens.” 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

He sneaks back out of Darktown an hour later, unsettled. He’s never seen Alistair like that before, and he doesn’t like it. The man is usually well put-together or, at least, better able to hide his nerves behind a laugh and a smile. To see him completely fall apart like that…

It doesn't bode well, and if Hawke is honest with himself, it moves up his timeline, however much he had been hoping to drag out the Captain’s patience by another day. He has to get back to the Templars  _ now, _ start making the Templars’ research work for  _ him, _ start actually working toward finding Cory and making him pay. No matter what Alistair says. Things could have changed, his information could be wrong. Somehow Hawke doesn’t think so, it hasn’t been that long, but he clings to that thought anyway, buoying himself on false hope. He’s going to need all the manufactured optimism he can to get him through saying goodbye to Bethany.

And he  _ has _ to say goodbye this time, not just up and leave without telling anyone or leaving any message. Especially if what Alistair told him is true… No, that’s not the right direction for his thoughts to take. He can’t help it, though. It’s important for him to say goodbye, to hold her and assure her that everything will be OK. Even if it won’t be. Still, he hesitates when he gets to the front door, pacing back and forth until the dog senses him out there and launches himself at the door enough times that Bethany gets up to investigate. 

They take the dog and walk out to one of the fancy cafes in Hightown for lunch, sitting at an outside table in the sunshine. Hawke orders more coffee with his overpriced sandwich, and they sit, more or less in silence, until the food arrives. He doesn’t quite know how to broach the subject, so he doesn’t, and instead listens to Bethany talk about the gallery. Turns out the potential sale fell through, so she doesn’t have to worry about whether or not a new owner would close the place down. She’s only been back at work for a few hours here and there, though she says she’ll start bumping up her hours next week to half-time and see how that goes. Hawke makes supportive and encouraging noises around mouthfuls of food and coffee, but he doesn’t miss the shrewd glance she throws him when he picks up the check at the end.

Bethany says nothing about it until they’ve reached the house again, twisting Cheerio’s leash round in her hands. The great hound, sensing something, yawns, stretches, and lays down between them on the front porch.

“Off again?” Bethany asks, staring directly at Hawke. He meets her gaze for as long as he can, then ducks his head in a nod. She has every right to be furious with him, and he fully expects the force of her wrath to descend upon his deserving head. Bethany is good at righteous wrath.

She surprises him, she’s good at that too, by reaching out to lay a hand on the crown of his head. “Take care of yourself?”

He looks up, confused, to see a tear fall from her eye, and leans across the dog to gather her into a fierce hug.

“I know I can’t stop you,” Bethany whispers in his ear. “I just want you to come back again.”

He grips her tighter, not trusting his voice to speak.

“Just promise me one thing,” she asks when he lets her go. “Talk to Fenris? Say goodbye to him, too.”

He nods and kisses her forehead. “I love you, Bethy.” And he turns on his heel and walks away.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

H:  **_Can I see you after work?_ ** (2:10 pm)

F:  **_Your house?_ ** (2:11 pm)

H:  **_The park, actually?_ ** (2:11 pm)

F:  **_I will be there by 5:30_ ** (2:15 pm)

Hawke waits nervously, sitting, then standing, then pacing around the bench at the entrance to the park. He’d arrived at 5 pm, early so he could choose the place of the meeting, close enough to the parking lot that Fenris would be able to find him easily but along the path he would need to take out of the park when they were done. He nudges at his bag with the toe of one boot, shuffling it incrementally this way and that, to ease his anxiety. This time he’s prepared a little further for his extended stay, shoving a few creature comforts in there along with all of Malcolm’s journals. 

Fenris, when he arrives, arches a pointed eyebrow at the bag then up at Hawke, who at least looks somewhat chastened though not repentant.

“You are leaving, then.” It isn’t a question, and Fenris doesn’t look surprised. Hawke sighs.

“Yeah.”

“I thought you said tomorrow.”

Hawke’s eyes dart to the side and he palms the back of his neck. “Something came up. I need to get back now.”

“One more day,” Fenris mutters to himself, then to Hawke, “Why will you not let me help you?” 

Hawke chews on the inside of his cheek, indecisive. He doesn't want Fenris to get involved, to again be put in harm's way because of his affiliation with Hawke, who has no choice but to be involved because of his damn father. On the other hand…

“Fenris, I need to ask you something—”

_ “Condition the second,” Alistair had said. “Ask Fenris, too.” _

“—Will you… If something happens to me, will you look after Bethany?”

A light breeze rustles the leaves of a nearby tree, carries the delighted screams of playing children and the lower, modulated tones of the adults watching them. The early evening sun filters through the trees, dappling the world in shifting greens and golds. Bees gently bump along from flower to flower, birds chirp to each other high in the tree branches. 

Between it all, displaced from this perfect summer day, Fenris stares at Hawke, lips parted, eyes wide, left hand clenched into a fist. Hawke stares back. The three feet between them stretches into an infinity, shifting them further out of phase with the world around them, until all Hawke can hear is the beating of his own heart and all he can see are Fenris’s green eyes, anguished and sad and desperate. Neither of them speak. Hawke shifts on his feet, trying to tear his eyes from Fenris’s and not succeeding. 

“Nothing will happen to you.”

“Fenris—”

“Nothing will happen to you,” Fenris repeats, setting his jaw and moving half a step forward. “I will not allow it.”

“That’s a nice thought, Fenris, but you can’t…” Hawke sighs, moving his hand from his neck through his dreads and then helplessly letting it slap against his leg. “I have to finish this, and I have to know Bethany’s safe, I have to know  _ you’re _ safe. That would kill me just as soon as any wannabe gangster, if something happened to you.”

He grimaces, feeling a little over-maudlin, but reaches out with one tentative hand toward Fenris anyway. Fenris looks at it, blinks, huffs a sigh, and uncurls his left hand from its fist to place their palms together, fingers at each other’s wrists. The red cuff circles there, Fenris’s shirtsleeves rolled up in a concession to the weather, and Hawke wraps his fingers around it as far as he can.

“I can take care of myself, you know,” Fenris says as Hawke half-steps closer, the space between them now insignificant.

“That’s not the point.”

“And what is the point?”

_ The point is that I love you, _ Hawke thinks, raising his other hand to let it rest gently against Fenris’s neck.  _ The point is that I never thought I could care about another person like this and it terrifies me. _

“I worry,” he says instead. Fenris watches him, eyes intent on his face, blinking slowly. 

“As do I.”

Hawke sighs, closing his eyes, his head falling forward. “Please, Fenris. Just tell me you will. I need to hear it.”

Fenris makes an exasperated sound, and Hawke can feel him shake his head. “Fine, you ridiculous man. In the unlikely event that I am unable to prevent you from doing something stupid or unable to keep you from harm while you do it anyway, I will ensure Bethany’s continued safety.”

Hawke opens his eyes when Fenris’s cast bumps against his neck, the fingers of that hand only lightly resting on his skin but he feels them like a shock through his system. Green eyes bore into his, holding his gaze captive.

“Let me help, Hawke,” he whispers hoarsely. “I would not see you come to harm if there is anything I can do to prevent it.”

“And you?” Hawke asks. “Will you let  _ me  _ help?”

Fenris huffs a small laugh, squeezing his fingers around Hawke’s wrist. “I—Yes. There is, I suspect, precious little that could keep each of us from doing what we can, in any case. You are infuriatingly stubborn.” He laughs at the incredulous eyebrow Hawke raises. “As am I, true.

“I said before that I would not apologize for doing what I can to protect you. That holds. I  _ am  _ sorry for the pain that I caused you, however. If I could go back, do it over… Well, I would perhaps choose a different day.”

Hawke snorts and Fenris curls one corner of his mouth up. “I will keep you updated on how the investigation for the case proceeds, as much as I am able,” he promises.

“I’ll be in touch if I get into deep shit,” Hawke says, his tone serious. Fenris tugs on Hawke’s wrist, pulling him into the few remaining inches between them.

“Thank you.”

He rises onto his tiptoes to kiss Hawke, just lightly, then lowers back down, and Hawke follows, dipping his head to fit their lips together again, letting go of Fenris’s wrist to wrap his arm around the man’s waist and pull them flush together. His other thumb strokes back and forth on Fenris’s neck, drawing a moan from him as Fenris presses closer, as if through sheer force he could create negative space between them, merge their bodies into one. Hawke kisses each of Fenris’s lips in turn then both, holding there, afraid to let go.

Slowly the world starts to filter back in, and Hawke begins to register the play of shadows across his eyelids, the breeze that rustles through Fenris’s hair and brushes it lightly across his face, the calling of parents and guardians as they round up the children to head home. A bird sounds off nearby and another, farther away, answers, trilling back a cheery song.

Hawke leans forward when he feels Fenris begin to pull away, seeking to stay in this moment for as long as he can. But he can’t and they both know it. It takes Fenris’s arm dropping away from his neck for him to finally break off with a sigh, leaning his forehead against Fenris’s. He loosens his arm around Fenris, allowing space between them once more.

“I will miss you, Hawke,” Fenris says softly as they continue to separate, slowly backing away until Hawke can kick out with his foot and toe up his bag, settling it on his shoulder. Hawke swallows, bites his lip, and crosses the space between them to kiss Fenris, fiercely, quickly, once more, before pressing his lips together and walking away.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“Eat with me,” the Captain says, standing at the foot of the bed that is still Hawke’s in the Templar safehouse. Not even the man he’d claimed it from had dared try to take it back while he was gone. Hawke looks up from stowing his pack as far underneath as possible and stands, brushing his hands off. The Captain looks the same as he had when Hawke left the week before, polished and commanding in his tac-pants and collared shirt, and Hawke raises an eyebrow at the command-phrased-request, though he has no intention of denying or disobeying the man.

“Sure, ser. Downstairs?”

“No. Come with me.”

So Hawke shrugs and gestures for the Captain to lead the way. He’ll check in with Margitte later; he assumes she’s in the basement gym or out on a job since he hadn’t seen her when he walked in. On his return to the safehouse, he’d gotten some strange looks and heard a lot of whispering as he passed. Now, tailing the Captain through the house, the same thing: stares and whispers. It must look odd, him leaving for a week ago like there was a fire, only to return and be almost immediately escorted away by no less than the Captain of the Templar Order himself. Hawke catches bits and pieces as he walks and fits them together as best he can with what he already knows. Margitte will fill him in on anything he’s missed and let him know about any of the nastier rumors he may not have caught.

“I am, of course, coming with you on the assumption that whatever you have is better than what they’ll serve,” Hawke says when they turn into the little Gallows neighborhood the Captain lives in. He’d figured this was where they were going, even though the Captain led them on a slightly circuitous route, reminiscent of the way Anders had guided him and Fenris to Karl’s apartment. Is the Captain afraid of being followed?

The Captain looks at him out of the corner of his eye, raising an eyebrow as they walk past manicured lawns with picket fences and pristine mailboxes. “And if it isn’t?”

Hawke kicks a rock that escaped a nearby landscaping venture, sending it clattering down the sidewalk and into the street. He shrugs one shoulder. It isn’t like he’ll walk out on the Captain, and they both know it. They continue on in silence until the question brewing in Hawke’s mind is too big to bear and he can’t take it anymore.

“Why here?”

“Pardon me?”

“Why live here? Hawke sweeps an arm out to encompass all the little houses with their American Dream-iconism and HOA-dictated paint jobs. “The fuck is so appealing about  _ here?" _

The Captain snorts a little half-laugh, gazing almost fondly at the cookie-cutter houses around them. “That, I believe, is precisely the point. This would be the last place one would think of to look for me, by which time I should already be gone.”

Hawke mulls this over for a second. “You  _ believe _ that’s the point? Due respect, ser, the fuck does that mean?”

They walk around the block before turning around to head back to the Captain’s house, the better to sniff out any tails, Hawke assumes, so as not to lead them home. Smart. He takes a last look around as the Captain lets them into the house, not seeing anything more suspicious than a car pulling into a garage at the end of a nearby cul-de-sac. He watches until the garage door closes on it then follows the Captain into the kitchen after locking the front door behind him.

“It means that this house,” the Captain gestures minutely yet somehow manages to indicate everything around them, “was given to me. As a reward for service. I did not choose it, therefore I assume from what I know.” He sets the oven to preheating and pulls a store-bought lasagna out of the freezer. Hawke moves out of the way without being asked and stands on the other side of the kitchen, the instincts honed with Fenris serving him well here. He hums to himself as the Captain reads the directions on the back of the box.

“There some reason people are after you?” he asks after the Captain has adjusted the temperature on the oven and double-checked the box.

The Captain turns around slowly, his face blank, extending a hand toward Hawke as if to shake, even though they’re a kitchen away. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m the second-in-command of Kirkwall’s largest gang.”

Hawke rolls his eyes at the sarcasm. “I’m serious, ser. Who’s after you and why?”

The Captain turns back to the lasagna box, like he still needs to see what it says. “I never said anyone was after me.”

Hawke can see one of his hands on the counter top, clenched into a fist, and presses his lips together. It’s none of his business, not his concern whether or not the second most powerful person in the Templar Order is being hunted by anyone for any reason. It shouldn’t matter to him. But it does.

“Didn’t have to, ser,” he says quietly, leaning against the half-wall that separates the kitchen from the dining room. A soft huff from the Captain.

“Am I that transparent?”

Hawke shakes his head before remembering the Captain can’t see through the back of his head. “Nah. Don’t imagine most of them care enough or know what to look for.”

The hand on the counter slowly loosens, and the Captain twists his head to look over his shoulder at Hawke, expression unreadable. He stares for a minute, looking away to slip the lasagna in the oven when it beeps, then leans back against the counter, crossing his arms.

“And you do?”

Hawke shrugs one shoulder. “Yes.”

The Captain frowns, as if thinking that over, and doesn’t speak for a few minutes. Hawke rummages through the fridge, looking for something to drink. He pulls out a couple beers, crossing to the Captain and offering one after he pops the top. The Captain accepts it with a nod and Hawke opens his own, leaning against the sink instead of returning to the other wall.

“Do you know why I asked you here?”

Hawke raises an eyebrow and gestures toward the oven. The Captain’s lips quirk upward but the smile fades quickly.

“Tell me, Hawke: do you dream?”

“The hell kind of question is that, ser?” Hawke asks, taking a slow pull from his bottle. When the Captain doesn’t respond, he throws one arm out to the side and sighs. “Not much anymore. Used to, all the time.”

“What kind?” But when Hawke opens his mouth, the Captain holds up a hand. “Forgive me, you don’t need to answer that. I admit my curiosity got the better of me.”

“Nightmares,” Hawke supplies anyway. The Captain grimaces sympathetically.

“I ask in order to warn you. Your...nightmares will likely return tonight or tomorrow. You may have noticed your sleep has been less restful this last week while you were away. Some of that is a natural part of grief. Some is...your body experiencing withdrawal.”

Hawke breathes deep through his nose, grinding his teeth. He’d  _ known, _ he’d figured that had to be the reason behind his sudden ability to sleep well since there hadn’t been many other options, but having it confirmed just fills him with anger, fueled by a little spark of hurt, of betrayal, that he hadn’t been told sooner.

“What is it?” he growls, his hand tight around his beer. The Captain sighs and passes a hand over his face before cupping his chin.

“The street name is lyrium. It can be obtained legally by prescription, but there is a remarkable black market surrounding it. In very low doses it is a sleep aid. In higher doses it functions similarly but generates a...significant dependency and, in some cases, can induce a kind of mania. If taken for long enough, there have been documented cases of memory loss. It is not easy to get, either through a doctor or back channels. The Templars have a dedicated supplier working out of the thaigs and cut it themselves in a warehouse by the Docks.”

The Captain speaks calmly, voice level, nearly monotone, like he’s reciting the ingredients listed on their dinner box. He looks just to the side of Hawke, not meeting his eyes.

“What’s the dose?” 

The Captain licks his lips and closes his eyes. “Large. I don’t know the exact measurements, but it is enough to create a dependency within a few weeks. Many deserters come back of their own accord because they cannot get enough of it elsewhere.”

“Why?”

This opens the Captain’s eyes and he looks directly at Hawke. “Loyalty,” he says.

“And you’re OK with this...this gross violation of bodily autonomy? You just, what, sit back and let it happen because it’s  _ useful _ to you?” Hawke scoffs and paces to the other end of the kitchen. “You know I actually thought you were a decent man for a while?”

“What do you imagine I can do about it, Hawke?” the Captain asks, and he sounds tired, weary in a way Hawke hasn’t heard from him before. His face looks anguished when Hawke turns toward him again, and he feels a little guilty about that, but not a lot, not enough to apologize.

“Do you believe I am so callous that I have not spent many sleepless nights thinking it over? I have brought it up to the Commander before, suggested we decrease the dose, wean the men off. She refuses every time. The dependency suits her needs. I cannot simply order it done; she will take her vengeance against those who carry out my order before punishing me, and I would not see that happen.”

The Captain drinks, a long, slow swallow, then lets the bottle hang by his side. “I care deeply about the lives of my men, Hawke. I hate that this is done to them, that they have no choice.” 

The kitchen light flickers, and the Captain casts an exasperated glance up at it, as if to tell it off for interrupting such a serious moment.

“Why tell me?” Hawke asks, voice hoarse, staring at the Captain from across the kitchen. 

“You don’t belong here, Hawke,” the Captain says without malice, dropping his gaze back down. “We both know this. I would see you able to make a choice so that you do not waste your life, addicted without reason.”

Hawke drains his beer and sets the bottle on the half wall with a  _ thump _ that echoes through the still house. “Are you?” he asks. “Addicted without reason?” 

“I was, for a long time. I’m sure it helped that I already had something of an addiction when I joined. I became very dependent very quickly, requesting then demanding greater and greater doses once I knew. It was the only way I could sleep but the dreams kept re-asserting themselves. I… There was an incident, and I was transferred here. The Commander...” He breaks off to drink, his breath escaping in a shuddering exhale. Hawke is transfixed, mute. He can’t move, can’t speak, can only stare and listen.

“For quite some time she allowed me a supply of uncut lyrium. Still does, in fact, though it has been nearly a year since I took any. She does not know, cannot know, that this is the case. I imagine she would have me killed.” His tone is so matter-of-fact that Hawke has to replay the sentence in his mind for the meaning to sink in.

“What—?”

“If I cannot be controlled, I am no longer an asset: I am a liability.”

“Fuck,” Hawke breathes. 

The Captain pulls the lasagna out of the oven and peels off the thin plastic film before putting it back in and setting the timer. He doesn’t look at Hawke. He doesn’t speak further. Instead he moves around the kitchen, pulling a few more things out of the freezer, grabbing plates out of the cabinet. He sets the table, microwaves some vegetables, and slowly finishes drinking his beer. Hawke stays out of the way, retreating awkwardly to the living room as he watches the Captain.

His mind whirls, reconciling what he knew about the Captain before with what he's just learned and coming to grips with his own situation. Drugged, addicted without his knowledge...and knowing now that the thought he’d had a day or two ago about returning so that he could sleep better was their intent all along, it makes his blood boil. 

Half of him itches to leave, and he paces the living room, his steps taking him closer and closer to the door with each pass. Where he would go he isn’t sure, as heading back to the safehouse sounds extremely unappealing right now. The rest of him is drawn inexorably back to the Captain, who continues to move about the kitchen, face carefully neutral. Hawke is still pissed as hell that this is going on,  _ encouraged _ by the Commander of the Templars and passively allowed by their Captain. He understands the man’s reasons, sympathizes to an extent, but hates them nonetheless. Hates that he’s in this position himself, that everyone he thought he could trust in this organization has betrayed him, whether consciously or unconsciously. Hates more that the Captain is arguably in a worse position than he is.

On his next circuit, turning from the door to stalk back across the living room, the Captain catches his eye and gestures at the dining room table, the one they’d sat at a few weeks ago while Donnic outlined their plan. Hawke sits in the chair across from him. The Captain has emptied the microwave vegetables into a bowl; set next to the lasagna on a hot pad and a loaf of garlic bread still in its foil wrapping, it looks like a meal that any family on the block would have, and that makes Hawke snort a wholly inappropriate laugh as the Captain scoots his chair in.

At the Captain’s raised eyebrow, Hawke shrugs and says, “just feel very domestic, ser.”

One of those barely-smiles touches the Captain’s lip for an instant, and he serves Hawke a piece of the lasagna before scooping one onto his own plate. Between the two of them, they demolish the vegetables and the loaf of bread and get about halfway through the lasagna. They eat in silence until the Captain shoves the lasagna pan away when they’re finished.

“It’s in the food, then?” Hawke asks, pushing away from the table and leaning back in his chair.

“That is their main delivery method, yes,” the Captain confirms. “Hence,” he spreads his arm to indicate their dinner. “You are, of course, more than free to head back to the safehouse now and eat something there, should you so choose. I would not blame you if you seek the comfort of a dreamless sleep.” 

Hawke could swear he sounds almost jealous and lifts his finger to doodle shapes into the table rather than meet the Captain’s eyes.

“What I’ve seen, you have your share of demons, ser. Could use a good night’s sleep. Why’d you stop?”

The Captain sighs. “It may sound strange to you, but...I believe in the Order. Not as it is under the Commander perhaps, not now anyway, but…” He rubs a hand across his mouth, and despite himself, Hawke lifts his eyes and half-watches, intrigued and captivated by the tease of getting to know more about the Captain.

“The Templars were there for me at a time in my life when I thought I had lost everything I cared about. They gave me a purpose, guided me onto a path where I could help people. Do not scoff,” he says, and Hawke shuts his mouth. “We were not always as we are now. Nor are we thus everywhere. When I joined in Ferelden after… We helped people, Hawke. The police are only able to do so much, and justice often does not follow. We kept the streets safe, delivered criminals to what they deserved, brought peace to those wronged.

“When they...transferred me to Kirkwall, I was...not myself. Perhaps if I had been, I would have seen the Commander for what she is sooner, been able to do something already.” The Captain exhales a deep breath. “For years I was blinded by anger and my addiction. I let that lead. I’m not proud of the man that made me.”

“But you stopped,” Hawke prompts, when the Captain falls silent and doesn’t speak for a minute. Across the table, the Captain nods almost woodenly.

“After Donnic began talking to me in earnest about unseating the Commander. Ten months. Give or take.” He stands from the table and retrieves more beers from the fridge, handing an open one to Hawke as he begins to clear the table. Hawke grabs their empty plates and other dishes, stacking them in the sink, while the Captain covers the lasagna. It’s a casual dance they do in the kitchen, passing around without bumping into each other, as if they’ve done this before.

When they’ve finished, the Captain retires to the living room, sinking into an armchair in the familiar way that suggests this is what he does most nights. Hawke follows and sprawls on the couch, his back propped up against one armrest so he can see the Captain without straining. He wants to continue asking questions, to learn more about the Captain, about his relationship with Donnic, about his own situation and the lyrium working its way out of his system. He clenches the hand not holding his beer. But the look on the Captain’s face says he wouldn’t be inclined to answer them tonight, not after having spilled so much already. So Hawke bites his tongue, drinks his beer, and sits in silence with the Captain until the sun has nearly set.

“You may return to the safehouse to sleep, if you wish,” the Captain says, finishing his drink. “There is also a guest room here. I do not know what dreams you may have, but at least here you will not be disturbed. Or judged.”

Hawke thinks about it, swinging his bottle back and forth between two fingers. “You know there are already rumors, right?”

The Captain eyes him levelly. “I know everything that goes on in the Order.”

“Right.”

He gives the Captain his empty bottle when he holds out a hand for it and remains seated where he is, mulling it over while the Captain is out of the room. On the one hand, staying here for the night means breakfast in the morning, and though the Captain can’t cook dinner, apparently, he  _ can  _ make some mean scrambled eggs and bacon, which Hawke was treated to the first and only other time he was over. It also means, potentially, those rumors get some extra fuel when he shows up to the safehouse in the morning, in the same clothes he left in. He can’t say he cares that much, though he is a little concerned for the Captain’s reputation. It wasn’t a rumor begun by the Captain or one of his in order to gain leverage over someone else, which means it could possibly be used by another party to gain leverage over the Captain, and that’s something Hawke is not OK with.

On the other hand, he’s not keen on the idea of returning to the safehouse and waking the rest of the floor up when he thrashes and breaks something or screams his head off. He’d rather not strangle anyone else, either. However, he’s not guaranteed nightmares tonight; that’s just the Captain’s wonderfully optimistic guess. Wonderfully optimistic,  _ probably accurate _ guess, considering the man’s been through it before.

There’s also the other option, the other, nagging, not completely unattractive option, of simply making sure he doesn’t have those nightmares again. He can, at any point he chooses, just make them go away. Side effects may include compulsory service to the Templars until he dies and one extremely pissed off Alistair. And Fenris. And Bethany. And and and. Who may all just join together and end him when they find out anyway. Short career, at least.

He lets out a heavy sigh and scrubs both hands down his face. It’s no good choice. He’d love to continue waking rested after a full night’s sleep and no nightmares. He’d love to leave behind the guilt and memories they dredge up in their wake. But he can’t indenture himself like that, not knowing what he knows now. Maker knows how badly he would have gotten addicted if the Captain hadn’t told him… 

A thought strikes him and a slow grin spreads across his face as he lowers his hands. The rumors may have been started as a way to malign the Captain, he doesn’t know for sure, but he  _ does _ know some of the people who seem most invested in it. And nurturing these rumors may just bring them back to him, without him having to try and find them. Yes, that’ll do nicely.

He stands up from the couch to see the Captain watching him expectantly, already changed from his tac-pants and button-up shirt into the sleep pants he’d worn on their trip out of the city a couple weeks ago. The sleep pants and nothing else, he realizes, taking in the broad planes of the Captain’s chest and abdomen before dropping his eyes and clearing his throat. Or maybe this was a bad idea. He can still feel Fenris in his arms, pressed up against him, holding his wrist.

“Staying here,” he mumbles to the floor, wrapping one hand around the other wrist, then raises his eyes and his voice, though he keeps his eyes unfocused somewhere to the right of the Captain. “I’ll stay here tonight, if that’s alright with you, ser.”

“Of course,” the Captain murmurs, extending a hand toward the hallway Hawke presumes heads to the bedrooms and leading the way. He toes open the first door on the left, stepping aside further down the hall so that Hawke can enter. Hawke had expected about precisely what he sees: a neatly made bed in steel grey and burgundy tones with accent pillows, a small nightstand beside it, and a dresser on the near wall, both painted a coordinating off-white. The window, for this room faces the front of the house, has dark curtains pulled back behind hooks, though it isn’t letting in much light other than from the street light at this point. He pulls the curtains first thing when he walks into the room and turns back to face the Captain to see a slight smile on his face.

“There should be some spare pajamas and clothes in the dresser. We are more or less of a size, so they should fit close enough. Bathroom is across the hall, spare toothbrush is on the counter. I’ll be at the end of the hall if you need anything.” 

Hawke nods and thanks him, crossing to pull open one of the dresser drawers, finding folded shirts inside. Not currently useful, though they will be in the morning, anyway. He glances aside at the door and the Captain still standing there, and lifts an eyebrow at him.

“You can call me Cullen, Hawke,” the Captain says. “That is my name.”

Hawke’s eyebrow raises higher. There’s a reason no one in the leadership of the Templars uses their full name, why most of them simply go by an initial, why Hawke is almost certain that next to no one uses their real names in the ranks. They all go by nicknames, some probably by middle or last names.

“Whatever you say, ser,” Hawke says, because he’s not sure of any other way to tell the man that he’ll take his secret to the grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, as always and ever, thank you all so much for your comments!! ^_^ You're wonderful readers and I am so glad to have each and everyone of you here.
> 
> A shout out to the Writers' Block discord for helping me through the writing slog that was this chapter. <3 y'all
> 
> You can join me on the [tumblrs](http://stitchcasual.tumblr.com), where I end up writing more drabbles than I intend to and reblog all sorts of fun things.


	37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke deliberates and decides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music rec: ["Muscle Memory"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4SILyk72viA) by LIGHTS
> 
> Holy buckets, y'all, this thing is posting nearly a month after the last one...and it's not even over 6k to make up for it! Here's the unfortunate thing about the next chapter: it's probably gonna be this long of a wait or longer. I just started a full-time job which is OK I guess but time-consuming, and Denver Comic Con is the last weekend this month and if I want to be warrior!Hawke for it....I gotta get scooting on making that suit of armor. So that's going to be my focus this month. Once that's done, though, I'll get back to it here.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with my unpredictable-posting ass.

There is always a light on somewhere in the Captain’s house and usually more than one. When Hawke jerks awake at 3:00 am, feeling cold and nauseated without a clear reason why, it’s the light from the hallway that guides him out of the bedroom and the light over the stove that brings him to the kitchen. He knows where the mugs are and grabs two out of the cabinet before hunting around for the coffee so he can start a pot brewing. He hauls up short when he finds the coffee because it feels as though he’s found the whole damn coffee  _ aisle. _ The Captain has no fewer than six bags in his pantry, though only one is open. There may be more, but Hawke can only see so far along the shelf. The man must go through the stuff quickly or else entertain over breakfast a lot. A hell of a lot. 

Hawke shivers as he measures the grounds into the filter, a double-filter to make the stuff just a little stronger. He knows he’s not sleeping any more today and could use the extra pick-me-up. From the amount of coffee in the pantry, he’d lay odds that the Captain either makes his coffee strong or has a truly staggering amount of cups per day. Or both. Probably both. Not that Hawke is in any sort of position to judge that particular habit.

He chafes his arms while he waits for the coffee to brew and resists the urge to continue opening cabinets and snooping around the Captain’s house. It’s one thing to look around with a clear purpose, quite another to simply look. To distract himself, he pulls out his phone, considering texting Fenris. It’s a tossup whether or not he’ll be awake this time of the morning, and Hawke taps his hand against his leg for a minute before deciding.

H:  **_What do you know about lyrium?_ **

In hindsight, not the best thing he could send his...whatever he and Fenris are now (friends? maybe) early in the morning, but Hawke hardly cares right now, and fills one of the mugs with coffee, carrying it over to the couch. He wraps both hands around the warming ceramic and sits there, huddled, drinking slowly. Less than an hour later, the Captain comes down the hallway, a hand running through his hair as he yawns. Still shirtless, Hawke notes, annoyed. Hawke himself is still wearing his clothes from yesterday; he hadn’t managed to change into anything else before he decided that he didn’t care and fell into bed. 

The Captain doesn’t notice Hawke is up and in the living room until he sees the mug on the counter and the partial pot of coffee and looks around, wide eyed. Hawke lifts one hand from his mug in a wave, replacing it quickly as his whole body shakes with a chill. He curls in tighter on himself, bringing his feet up on the couch and tucking his elbows in close to his body. His eyes close and he bends his head over the mug though there’s no steam rising from the coffee anymore. The feeling of something heavy and warm being draped over his shoulders and back rouses him, and he looks up to see Cullen, eyebrows drawn together, tucking a blanket forward over his arms, nesting Hawke within its comfort. 

“Refill?” Hawke asks, raising his mug out of the blanket. Cullen nods and turns for the kitchen as Hawke pulls and tugs on the blanket to get it covering all of him in equal measure. He realizes belatedly that he needs hands for coffee but is loathe to have any body part leave the blanket now that he’s all comfortable inside. So instead, when Cullen returns with two steaming mugs of coffee, he makes a bowl shape with his hands and nods at the slight protrusion under the blanket that they make. He gets a raised eyebrow in response but also a cup of coffee deposited right where he requested. He sticks his face as close as he can get, humming happily as the warmth from the cup begins to seep into his hands and down his arms. He’s still cold, but he’s a lot better than before and he’s stopped shivering quite so much.

“Blankets are to the side of the couch there,” Cullen says, pointing from his chair. “In that chest. Should you need them again.”

Hawke leans over to look to his left at the indicated chest. It’s quite large, though simply made, and he turns a curious gaze back to Cullen. “Assuming it’s full, that’s quite the collection you have.”

The only response he gets is a nod of the head and he has to content himself with that. He figures the blankets are a holdover from when the Captain went off lyrium himself; if these chills are anything like normal withdrawal symptoms, anyway, the Captain must have experienced them himself at some point. He wonders if he still does or if he can look forward to them going away. Hopefully soon. He huddles a little farther down in the blanket. 

It’s an afghan and looks homemade, the bright colors somewhat faded with time and, presumably, repeated use. He doesn’t ask about it, and Cullen doesn’t offer any information.

Turns out he was right about the staggering amount of cups of coffee, as Cullen gets up twice while they’re sitting there, once to refill his cup and once to make a new, full pot. He brings it over when it’s done brewing and tops off Hawke’s mug where he sits, enjoying being near that much hot liquid as it steams out of the pot. Cullen chuckles at Hawke’s whine when he takes the pot away.

“It shouldn’t last forever, these chills,” he says, settling back into his chair a minute later. “Though they might resurface occasionally. It’s a roulette wheel.”

“You?”

Cullen sighs and rubs his jaw. “Rarely, though it does happen. My lot is more on the migraines and anxiety side these days.”

“And you just, what? Pretend you’re fine?” Hawke grinds his teeth to keep them from chattering and gulps at his coffee, desperate to spread its warmth through his body though it hardly seems to be working.

“Yes,” Cullen says simply. He gestures with his mug after taking a sip. “I must. It was my choice to do this. Whatever the pain, I can endure it.”

They finish the pot of coffee before either of them speaks again. The sun is only just beginning to think about rising, dusting the horizon with pink streaks. Twenty-four hours ago he’d been with Fenris, curled together on the floor of his kitchen, their lives finally coming back together, and he’d wished that time wouldn’t pass so quickly so that he could stay there with Fenris for longer. Now he shuts his eyes, burying his face in his knees, and wishes that the time will pass faster so that he can get back to Fenris and be done with this whole ordeal. Assuming, that is, that he survives it.

F:  **_More than I want to. What has happened?_ **

“Shit,” Hawke says when he looks at his phone. At Cullen’s questioning eyebrow, he says, “I’m in trouble,” but he doesn’t offer any more information and Cullen doesn’t press.

H:  **_Tell you later. What do you know?_ **

F:  **_I’m holding you to that, Hawke._ **

F:  **_It was Dan’s party drug of choice. He would occasionally host parties and serve it as though it were hors d'oeuvres._ **

F:  **_I have...personal experience with it, as well, though Dan’s was often mixed with other substances for greater effect._ **

F:  **_I know how it feels when it enters the bloodstream in large amounts and how it feels to come down afterward._ **

F:  **_I know where to get it in Tevinter and in Kirkwall._ **

Hawke exhales heavily and thrashes out of the blanket so he can set his mug on the coffee table. He’s completely zoned in to his phone and the messages coming in from Fenris. It kills him they’re having this conversation over text rather than in person, but he started it.

H:  **_What do you know about withdrawal?_ **

Fenris’s reply takes several minutes to come through, and Hawke’s an anxious, shivering wreck by the time he gets the notification, even though he’s pulled the blanket back around him as much as he can.

F:  **_Ah. Of course. Not much, I’m afraid. Dan was careful to moderate his consumption and he never let me get truly addicted either, afraid it would dull some of my other useful senses._ **

F:  **_I just know the immediate aftermath. Stay warm, drink plenty of water, and do not do anything strenuous._ **

H:  **_Coffee doesn’t count?_ **

F:  **_Coffee doesn’t count._ **

F:  **_Please...be careful. Hawke._ **

H:  **_I’m trying_ **

Hawke sets his phone down next to his mug on the table after switching the screen off and rubs his face before pulling the blanket tighter around himself. Cullen comes back out to the living room a few minutes later, bearing a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon that Hawke accepts with greedy hands. When he’d slipped into the kitchen, Hawke isn’t sure, but he sure does appreciate the breakfast.

“Capt—ah, Cullen?” he calls, and the man turns around in the doorway to the kitchen. “Water?”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The Captain regretfully kicks Hawke out later that morning, needing to be present for some big-wig Templar thing somewhere else in the Gallows and not comfortable with anyone being in his house without him. So Hawke walks back to the safehouse, at least enjoying the feel of the sun as he goes. It doesn’t warm him as thoroughly as he needs, there’s still a chill deep within him, but at least his surface areas are doing better. He’s beginning to think that the bone-deep cold is nothing he can do anything about. Except, of course, he can. He curls his hands into fists and heads directly to the basement gym to hit something when he walks through the safehouse door.

Margitte appears from nowhere, or perhaps from the bench press, to hold the bag while Hawke strikes at it with unwrapped hands. She doesn’t say anything at first, just lets him release the beginnings of his frustration and anger, then when he pauses to shuffle his feet and get a new angle on the bag, she swings it out of the way of his first punch.

“Wrap up, dummy, or do something else.”

Hawke snarls and tries to hit the bag again. Margitte moves it so he only lands a glancing blow, scraping the hell out of his knuckles.

“What’d I say?” She steps out from behind the bag to stand in front of it, pretending to lean casually against it as it sways from the ceiling. “The hell’s into you? Or was nothing into you, and that’s the problem?” Her raised eyebrow and half-wink let Hawke know exactly what she, and thus everyone else in the safehouse, thinks he was doing last night. He groans.

“Ah hah!” Margitte crows. “Your booty call didn’t get no booty. Well, my grumpy friend, say no more. I know what you need.”

Hawke has a moment to wonder if Cullen really does know everything that happens within the Order or if he was bluffing before Margitte grabs him by his bicep and hauls him over to the sparring ring. They go three rounds and she hands him his ass each time. He’s distracted, not for the reason she thinks but it’s a good enough cover story, and she teases him mercilessly for it, usually while standing on or over him after putting him on the ground. The three rounds is only out of a sense of mercy Margitte shows him, extending a hand to pull him up and patting his chest after she lays him out again.

“It’s boring kicking your ass all the time,” she says. “Come back when you’ve got your...head on straight.” She laughs at her own joke and pulls a couple bottles of water out of the fridge someone in the Templars keeps stocked. It’s a sealed bottle and from a brand Hawke recognizes so he takes it though he still eyes it suspiciously. Great, now he’s imagining scenarios in which the Templars have the ability to supplant the means of manufacturing for bottled water. He needs a goddamn tin foil hat. 

“So how is he in bed?” 

Hawke spits his water across the floor, and Margitte collapses into fits of giggles. She’d timed that on purpose, he knows, and he glares. It only makes her laugh harder.

“I mean,” she says, speaking past tears, “usually. Since you didn’t get any last night.”

He just sighs and finishes his water, throwing the bottle at her head. Hard.

“It’s classified.”

Margitte snorts and chucks her bottle at him, too. He bats it away. “Yeah right. You just don’t wanna say and get some competition up in there.”

That shakes something loose in Hawke that the walk and the sparring hadn’t succeeded in, and he laughs, actually laughs, in loud, clear peals. It shocks Margitte and she just stares at him, slack jawed, for a minute before her mouth curves into a grin and she claps him on the shoulder. Hawke straightens to his full height and strikes a bodybuilding pose, turning one hip toward Margitte and lifting the heel of that foot while his arms mirror each other, one up and one down, flexing in an S shape.

“You could never hope to compete with this,” he says. “You all could never!” He raises his voice to the rest of the room, looking around. It’s a clear mark of territory and most people don’t meet his gaze, dropping their eyes to the side or to the floor. The few that do look up at him quickly look away. Margitte, on the other hand, snorts.

“What’d’ya do last night, then, snuggle? Got news for you, man, that isn’t gonna keep a guy like the Captain around for long.” She pats his arm. “Nice try though.”

Hawke shrugs, dropping the pose. “Might just.”

“No way. Guy like that, so restrained all the time? He’s gotta be fucking nuts in the sack, and if you don’t keep up, my friend? He will find someone new.” She nods sagely, as if she knows something about Cullen that he doesn’t. That’s fine, she can keep thinking that. Seems that no one really knows the man within the rank and file, and he wonders if that hurts or helps him.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, shrimp.” Hawke leans an arm on Margitte’s head, and she punches him in the solar plexus. 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

He skips lunch, tells Margitte he isn’t hungry, and spends the time sitting on his bed reading through some of Malcolm’s journals. By the time dinner rolls around, though, he  _ is _ hungry and his stomach is making itself heard about the issue. Cullen hasn’t asked him over tonight and Hawke isn’t about to invade the man’s home without being invited, so he reluctantly follows Margitte when she appears and hits his arm.

Mealtimes in the Templar safehouse are communal affairs, everyone pulling the collapsible tables and chairs from closets around the perimeter of the main floor and setting them up, eating whatever is brought out to them together, and clearing the room afterward. It used to somewhat relax Hawke, the ritual of the furniture moving, his habit of sitting in the middle of the table set against the farthest wall since it has the best view of the floor, talking and joking with Margitte. Most of the other Templars had given him a wide berth before, since the incident with Pax, and it hasn’t changed now that he’s viewed as the Captain’s, what, fuckboy? If anything, the distance between him and everyone else is larger, not that he minds much. 

No, what he does mind is the way his throat feels like it’s closing up, the way his heart is hammering in his chest, the way his mind is screaming for him to be anywhere but here. He tries to swallow and ends up just clearing his throat. He focuses instead on moving tables, waving off any assistance with the ones he has, setting them up by himself so any trembling in his hands can be hidden, so he doesn’t have to explain the way his eyes are wide and his breaths are shallow. When he sits down at the table, his leg jerks up and down, restless. 

“You’re moving the whole damn table,” Margitte grouches, serving some food onto her plate. She looks at Hawke’s empty plate and scoops some up for him too. Hawke jerks away from the table, swallowing against the bile rising in his throat. 

“You OK? You’re not looking so hot.”

“Feel like shit,” he manages to say and scrambles over the bench seat, lurching toward the stairs. Hawke takes himself to the second floor, collapsing onto one of the closer cots without concern for its placement within the room, and there he stays, arms wrapped around his stomach, knees pulled up to his chest, shaking.

Pax follows him before too long and bends over Hawke, checking him over first with his hands then his equipment, making concerned clicking noises with his tongue. Hawke ignores him, focusing his energy and effort into pulling his body’s reaction down to a more manageable level. He hadn’t expected to  _ feel _ his repulsion so viscerally, and he supposes it’s a side effect of the week without lyrium somehow, the withdrawal multiplying his disgust, distaste, and outright fear. He fears the lyrium now, fears the dependency, the complacency that could arise so easily if he just let go. 

His teeth grind together and he squeezes his eyes shut tight, tuning out the murmuring that Pax has started up, talking to himself about Hawke and his situation. He doesn’t want to know; he just wants to be left alone. For a while it seems like he gets his wish: Pax pats his shoulder and wanders off, and the room is blessedly quiet and empty and Hawke sinks farther down into himself. It’s more comfortable here, he thinks, hiding within his mind from the anxiety raging all around. Even Pax’s hand on his shoulder doesn’t bother him so much now. 

It’s only when Pax brushes his hand over Hawke’s neck and rests it at the base of his skull that Hawke starts to think there might be something worth worrying about. A moment later something wet swipes across his skin, and he knows there something wrong, he just can’t quite place—

“—you feel better,” Pax says, and the cold tip of a syringe presses into his flesh. 

Hawke’s eyes fly open wide, his entire body tensing. He claws at Pax but the man jumps out of the way just in time. The needle hurts as it’s near ripped from his neck, but Hawke can’t muster any care about that right now. He’s just been—

“You—”

“Thank me in the morning.”

Hawke struggles to rise from the bed, but the dose Pax gave him must have been huge and directly into a vein because he flops back down, all strength removed from his limbs. His anger slowly floats away as his mind blanks, and a minute later he enters a perfectly dreamless sleep.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

He’s certain of only a few things when he wakes again. One, he’s fucking starving. Two, he fell asleep in one hell of an awkward position because his arm, leg, and neck all hurt. And three, he’s going to throttle Pax, very deliberately.

Pax, wisely, does not seem to be anywhere within his line of sight.

Hawke slowly reorients his body, sitting up and rubbing stiff and pained muscles from a hard night of involuntary sleep. He feels better than he has in a week, muscle cramps aside, and it pisses him off. He didn’t want this,  _ doesn’t _ want this, and now he’s back to the beginning of getting the damn stuff out of his system. If that’s even possible at this point. He lowers his head into his hands, slumping off the side of the bed. His head hurts, too much too fast probably, damn Pax. He needs some ibuprofen, assuming that even mixes well with lyrium, and a metric ton of water, but he can’t make himself get up just yet.

Instead he sits and stares at the floor through his fingers, digging his thumbs into his cheekbones. Maybe...maybe he can’t do this. It was foolish to think he could, to even imagine that he might be able to find the answers he seeks. The longer he stays, the more likely it is he’ll just end up another Templar, addicted without reason, because he can’t stay away from the safehouse, not like Cullen can. He’s bound by the pattern he’s already established, that the safehouse is his home now. The only way he could get out of it is to live with Cullen, to put at least some sort of truth to the rumors that he’s a kept man. But he can’t do that. There’s...something he has with Fenris again, and it fills the hole in his heart he’s carried for these last six months. And Hawke’s not blind, he’s  _ seen _ the Captain, and he’d be lying if he said the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. There’s a big difference between seeing and living with, though, and Hawke knows himself. Knows what would likely happen if he spent that much time around Cullen right now in the state he’s in, no matter what Fenris said about not sharing. So it can’t happen. He won’t do anything to jeopardize what he has, small as it is.

The only other way he can see to completely avoid exposure is to live at his house again and he is not keen, to say the least, about the idea of leading the Templars to his home. Again. It is unfortunately probable that he was followed for at least part of his week away, that he was observed entering and exiting his house and in the company of Fenris. He hadn’t seen anyone, felt any tails, but that doesn’t make it an invalid potentiality. But if he doesn’t go back to it, the house becomes less interesting, not worth scrutiny or further surveillance, and so do the people in his life he may have exposed to Templar eyes. The best thing for them is for him to stay here until he’s finished what he set out to do. Or died trying.

That option sounds better and better the more he thinks about it. Assuming he solves the problem of Cory P. systematically taking out his family members, dying himself would, at the very least, remove the issue of his addiction from the equation. If he’s dead, it doesn’t matter if he died hooked on an illegal substance or not. And if he’s dead, he won’t have to make the incredibly painful journey of recovery.  _ Coward. _

Hawke groans and rubs the heel of one hand against his eye. No good options. No decent ones, either. The only one that seems to make sense for now is mediation: avoiding the drug as much as possible but allowing its consumption on occasion. It’s a compromise, probably the worst one he’s ever made. But how can he follow through on it when the last time he sat down to eat he ended up here? There’s no way he’s allowing  _ that _ to happen again, and if Pax or anyone else tries, they’ll find themselves thrown through the nearest wall. Or worse.

The bed dips down as someone sits next to him, and immediately he fists his hand and draws it from his face, ready to strike. Margitte hits his leg.

“Relax, ass.” She offers him a bagel, already spread with cream cheese, and he takes it warily, eying it. He can feel his heart beating faster and slows his breathing to counteract it. Margitte sighs and bumps his shoulder with hers.

“Just eat it, OK? It’ll help you feel better.” She threads her fingers together between her knees. “I’ve been there. It’s not fun.”

“There?” Hawke asks, curious. He forces himself to take a bite of the bagel, keeping his attention on Margitte in an effort to distract himself from the panic scratching at the back of his mind. 

“Yeah.” She gestures at the room around them vaguely. “Went home to take care of some family. Came back two weeks later, shaking and fighting everyone.” 

Hawke snorts and Margitte punches his arm. He grins at her and shifts on the bed, propping his back against the wall and setting one of his feet on the mattress. She smacks his leg but doesn't force it off the bed, just barely glares at him.

“What I'm saying is that I know what you're going through. You could have told me; I would have understood not wanting to eat. Just...tell me, yeah?” She grips his knee, shaking it lightly, and Hawke twists his lips. 

“Yeah, sure.”

One corner of her mouth quirks up and she pats his knee twice before standing up. Hawke salutes her with his bagel as she leaves the clinic floor and heads downstairs. He eyes it balefully when she's gone. His stomach turns, at once desperate for food while rejecting the very idea of it. Margitte, thoughtful as she was to bring him something to eat, doesn't have the right of it, not completely, and Hawke isn't likely to clue her in. It's not that he's simply going through withdrawal, though there is that. But she doesn't understand not wanting to keep on with it, she can’t. The Templars are her life, her purpose, her way of taking care of what family she has remaining. Even just considering a conscious withdrawal would be anathema to her.

He supposes he understands, in a way. The Templars are currently the only life he has, the only way he can protect Bethany. But his purpose will not and cannot ever be to advance the interests of the Templar Order, as Cullen wished of him that day on the roof what feels like forever ago. 

Hawke swings his other foot up onto the bed, crossing his legs and hunching over to place his forearms on his thighs. The bagel he places just in front of him. He grinds his teeth, exhales heavily, and grabs the bagel, tearing off a large bite and chewing resolutely before he can change his mind. His body will not win this fight, he’ll see to that.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Cullen texts him to come over that evening, mentioning a meeting with Donnic. Hawke doesn’t recall such a meeting existing in his schedule before he left the other morning but supposes Donnic was perhaps involved in whatever business Cullen was conducting after Hawke left and they had planned it then. Margitte gives him a knowing wink and flashes him a thumbs up when she sees him leaving. To his credit, he holds back his groan until he’s a city block away.

The Captain’s gotten fancy with Donnic coming over too, and the pizza delivery guy shows up about when Hawke does. Hawke’s stomach is still rumbling from this morning, he never did eat much more than that bagel (though he considers that to be a triumph), and the pizza actually smells mostly appetizing. Cullen spreads the boxes out across the kitchen counters and pulls paper plates from a cabinet. He gestures and hands a plate to Hawke, who nods and sets to figuring out just what a Captain of the Templar Order gets from Dominos.

As it turns out: one cheese pizza, one pepperoni pizza, a very large thing of cheesy bread, and an equally as large thing of cinnamon sticks. Hawke takes one of each, though the sight of his plate that full makes him slightly queasy.  He sets his food down on the dining room table and turns to get himself a glass of water, only to find Cullen standing close to him, holding one out. He nods again and sets himself at the table to begin the long, slow process of attempting to eat enough food.

Cullen meets Donnic at the door when he arrives, and both of them give him some space, loitering in the kitchen and talking just loud enough that Hawke can hear them but not make out completely what they’re talking about. He doesn’t mind. It’s comforting, in fact, the dull murmur of their voices. It creates a soothing backdrop for him, and while he’s focusing on attempting to eavesdrop on them, he doesn’t pay as much attention to the food. He’s finished before he realizes it. Of course, as soon as he realizes, his stomach churns and he has to breathe in deep, taking a drink of water to try and calm it down.

The Captain clears his throat as he and Donnic finally join Hawke at the table, gently bringing Hawke’s attention to him. He smiles, just slightly, and waves one hand at himself and Donnic.

“Don and I thought it would be wise to bring you up to speed on where we are before we move any further.”

Hawke shrugs with his head, looking from one to the other. “Sure, as long as you know I’m not in this to redeem your Templar Order.” He blinks at Cullen as he says this. “I don’t care how much you believe in them. I would see them fall.” 

There is something of disappointment on Cullen’s face, but Hawke sets his jaw. “I don’t care if they’ve done a single solitary good deed. They killed my brother. They can fucking rot.” Cullen doesn’t seem shocked by this statement, confirming Hawke’s suspicion that he’d known all along. Had he been waiting for Hawke to confess it before he revealed his knowledge? Would he have told Hawke at all under different circumstances?

Cullen sighs, a small sound that isn’t directed at anyone, and studies the pizza on his plate a bit more closely than is warranted.

“I do not blame you. Were they the cause of my brother’s death, I would feel the same.”

Hawke huffs and turns his head a little to look toward the front of the house. “Just get on with it.”

“It’s a slow process,” Donnic says, sharing a glance with the Captain as he takes over. “Pretty much all of the Templars would trust Cu—the Captain here with their lives, but asking them to place their loyalty with him rather than the Order isn’t something we can straight up do.”

“I know his name,” Hawke interrupts.

“What?”

“He… I told him my name.” Cullen sounds a bit sheepish at that, and Donnic throws up his hands. Hawke snorts. Donnic rallies valiantly and continues on.

“That said, we’ve made inroads with a few members and recruits and think we could get most of them to turn state’s here with Cullen when the time comes.”

“When’s that?” Hawke asks, leaning across the table.

Donnic blinks slowly and pinches the bridge of his nose. “We don’t know."

“Why not?”

Donnic sighs and looks at Hawke over the fingers still grasping his nose. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but undercover operations take time. And as we are but two men in an organization that is quite large, it is understandably taking us quite a bit of time. Even with you, Maker preserve us, it will be  _ months _ before we’re ready to greenlight any plan. Still can’t believe Aveline hasn’t removed you yet,” he mutters, closing his eyes.

Hawke grins, crossing his arms over his chest as he tilts back in his chair. “She can’t risk your cover. So thanks.” He laughs as Donnic groans. “Anything else I need to know?”

One short debrief later, really it’s remarkable how little Donnic and Cullen seem to have gotten done since Donnic convinced Cullen to turn state’s evidence what feels like a lifetime ago even though it’s less than a year, and Hawke pushes back from the table and stands. Cullen and Donnic share another glance, and Hawke stops, raising an eyebrow.

“There is one more matter,” Cullen says, and he sounds almost apologetic, refusing to meet Hawke’s eyes.

Donnic jerks a thumb at Cullen. “Captain here went around last week and told everyone you’d been sworn in as a full member before you left. Saved your ass from getting kicked out by T. Might want to thank him.”

“But...I cannot lie. Not forever, not about something that matters to me.” Cullen finally raises his brown eyes to Hawke’s. “I would have you swear it now.”

Hawke runs his tongue along the inside of his teeth, dropping his paper plate back onto the table. He sighs and brushes his hair back from his face, pushing the dreads behind his shoulders. He’s stalling for time and it’s obvious. Donnic watches him with eyebrows raised, but the Captain’s attention is much as it always is: mild but focused, intense. Difficult to be subject to when his eyes are narrowed just slightly, his eyebrows drawn just a few millimeters together. It’s like he’s bracing himself for disappointment, like he assumes Hawke will walk out and disappear rather than swear this oath. 

Hawke huffs, somewhat hurt at that idea; despite the fact that the Templar Order does mean less than nothing to him, he has come to care about some few of the people within the organization, Cullen among them. He’d thought the two of them had an unspoken understanding, but if Cullen is doubting him now, perhaps it was not as understood as he thought.

“If I’m recalling correctly, that involves promising to advance the Templars’ interests and safeguard the others in the ranks.” Hawke speaks slowly, his gaze steady on the Captain. He can see Donnic on the periphery, standing as a silent witness to the proceedings.

“Just so.”

Hawke licks his lips. “I’m not sure I can do that, ser.” Something tics in the Captain’s jaw, and Hawke raises his right hand. “Not precisely. But I can do something else.” He extends his hand toward Cullen, who grips it after a brief pause, his face still performing its micro gymnastics: eyes slightly widened, lips a hairsbreadth from parting, _hope_ written plain for Hawke to see.  

“I promise to protect the innocent and those who deserve another chance. I will suffer no fools but will shelter them if I am able.” He swallows and squeezes the Captain’s hand. “I swear to follow you, for as long as our purposes align; to advance  _ your  _ interests in the Templar Order, for as long as they exist to serve our purpose; and to safeguard you from those who would set themselves in opposition to you.”

Hawke exhales and releases Cullen’s hand, stepping back and clasping his hands behind him. “Is that sufficient, ser?”

Cullen blinks, his breath escaping him in a small  _ whoosh _ , and it’s a moment before he nods. “Quite."

Donnic leaves without a word, his part in it over, and Cullen and Hawke are left standing in the dining room, staring at each other in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to the Writers' Block who both kicked my ass and encouraged me through writing the last half of this chapter <3
> 
> Find me on the [tumblr](http://stitchcasual.tumblr.com), where I should really be posting progress photos of that cosplay....


	38. Chapter Thirty-Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke wavers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music rec: ["Smoke and Mirrors"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VDPnaTQF6Dw) by Imagine Dragons

Hawke doesn’t see the Captain for a week after he swears his loyalty. Sees nothing at all from him, actually, no texts, no appearances at the safehouse. He barely sees Donnic, who supposedly runs the safehouse he lives at. Two days out of seven he’s able to come up with some sort of excuse as to why he’s not eating dinner at the safehouse, most mornings he can find some sort of packaged breakfast instead of what the cooks make, and he bypasses lunch half the time and grabs a granola bar the other half. Hunger becomes a constant companion, a kind of sign that he’s doing what he can to avoid lyrium exposure. He’s faster to snap at people who annoy him, quicker to anger than usual. Even Margitte gives him a little more space, letting him be grumpy by himself.

For all that, he’s careful to avoid a scene like the one that happened at dinner the week before, though he doesn’t avoid Pax. Instead he actively seeks him out, cornering him on the second floor the first day of that week.

One arm acts as a block against Pax’s escape route, Hawke only allowing access farther into the medical floor which would get him nowhere, and Pax swallows as Hawke stares at him without speaking for a long minute. The smaller man and his ridiculous moustache usually do their best to stay out of Hawke’s way after the run-ins they’ve had, and Pax’s eyes are gratifyingly wide by the time Hawke speaks.

“You will never,” Hawke says, rubbing his thumb casually down the side of his own neck, over the spot where Pax injected him, “do that to me again.”

Pax shakes where he stands, though to his credit he pulls himself up in an attempt to show that he’s made of stern Templar stuff. It’s admirable, after a fashion.

“It’s standard procedure.”

Hawke blinks once, slowly. “That’s nice.”

“I was just...following procedure,” Pax says, as though the repetition will be what makes Hawke leave him alone. And if his voice weren’t so obviously shaking, it might help. But it is, so it doesn’t. That and Hawke is pissed as hell and not letting go of this grudge any time soon.

“And I don’t care.” Hawke flexes the muscles in the arm trapping Pax. “If you ever…” he exhales, nostrils flaring, “inject me without my express permission, I  _ will _ strangle you, and there will be no one around to keep me from killing you.” He leans closer, ducking his head down to meet Pax’s eyes.

“Are we clear?”

Pax gulps, nods, and Hawke lifts one corner of his mouth in a smile that’s more like a snarl. After another minute of staring down Pax, he steps back, slips his hands into his pockets, and takes the stairs up to the third floor.

He doesn’t keep anything truly valuable with his belongings at his bunk there, but he roots around under his bed for a short period of time anyway. He’d rather people believe he has his hiding place there rather than anywhere truly near to its actual location. And he does have some things hidden under his bed, pretend-worth items that anyone snooping would find but not care enough about to steal. Everything else, the things he truly cares to keep hidden, is on the roof. 

There’s a corner of the roof where a few bricks have shaken loose. Behind them Hawke has cut a hole large enough to house those journals he brought with him from his house, wrapped in plastic so any weather elements that might happen along don’t destroy the information he’s so desperately trying to find. Of course, all this only happened after he swept the roof three times for any bugs or cameras. He’s not positive he found them all, but he knows the best places to sit where he has the lowest chance of being observed. His hidey hole falls into one of the blind spots he thinks exist, though he’s careful to hide his movements as much as he can when removing the journals anyway.

He sits on the edge of the roof, one leg hanging over while the other anchors him to the rooftop, and picks up where he last left off. There still isn’t much to go on yet, but he reads closely, searching for any clues that could help him find Cory P. His heart aches in his chest whenever Malcolm writes too much about Leandra or the twins, a painful reminder of the family he could not protect, the responsibility he failed. He grits his teeth and keeps moving whenever that happens, focusing on Bethany, on what he still has left. He can’t fail her too. At least Fenris has promised to do what he can to watch over her, which sets his mind somewhat at ease. And, as far as he knows, the protective detail the Inquisitors assigned to her is still ongoing. He’s not sure when they’ll pull their men from Bethany guard duty, but he won’t say a thing in case that reminds them that they have better things to do with their resources.

It’s too bad he has no inside source into the investigation, no one with contacts at the Inquisition...or does he? On a whim he pulls out his phone and fires off a query. This early in the afternoon Varric isn’t usually too busy, and sure enough, a response comes swiftly.

V:  **_Your lack of faith is disturbing. Of course I know someone._ **

V:  **_Come on._ **

V:  **_She kind of hates me though._ **

Hawke snorts a laugh and tries to phrase his request half-nicely. Completely alienating his friends would be a terrible game plan, though he’s pretty sure he’s already about halfway there. Varric beats him to the punch, texting again before Hawke’s had a chance to reword his message for the fourth time.

V:  **_Just tell me what you need to know and I’ll see what I can do._ **

So Hawke deletes his still not-quite-there text and instead lays out what he needs from Varric in as concise a way as possible: length of detail on Bethany, results of investigation into circumstances surrounding Leandra’s death. Hopefully Varric’s...contact will find it in her heart to divulge the information, since it’s definitely against regulations to do so. Even if she only shares the status of the detail on Bethany, that will be enough for Hawke. As long as she’s safe, he can figure everything else out. 

At least the journals seem to be leading in a positive direction finally. He’s come across one or two small passages in some of them that don’t match up with the surrounding text but look the same if you’re just scanning quickly through the pages. These he’s marking so he can come back to them later, put them all together (assuming he finds more), and see if they make sense that way. Taken separately they don’t mean anything, though one of the passages has what looks like a stylized address, though it’s not a system he’s familiar with. The other has written out strings of numbers. Hawke hasn’t spent a lot of time trying to decipher the numbers, having only found these passages recently, but he has thus far been unable to divine their purpose. 

There aren’t that many journals left either, not when stacked against the number he’s already been through; with each passing page, Hawke grows more nervous that the information his father was trying to hide in these books will be defeated by time. Perhaps Malcolm was killed before he finished laying everything out. It’s certainly a possibility, but Hawke doesn’t like to dwell on it much. Without knowing what Malcolm knew about the person behind the initial loan, he’s not sure he’d be able to pick up the pieces and stitch them together. And really, all he has is conjecture at this point anyway; even all of Malcolm’s research depends on a few key assumptions being correct.

Hawke closes the current journal on his finger, marking the place as he stares out at the Kirkwall skyline. Timeline-wise, this journal takes places only a couple years from Malcolm’s death: the twins are adorable and about to start high school, even though Malcolm notes that Carver has been taking after Hawke more and more, growing quieter, more serious and introspective, but prone to intense flashes of anger when provoked. Bethany is an angel, of course, beloved by teachers, who adore her sharp, inquisitive mind and the good grades that set her apart from her brothers. Hawke, at this point, is in his second year at Lothering Community College, and away from home more often than not. He’s occupied with his classes, to an extent, and with the ROTC, to a much greater extent.

It’s strange, reading from an outside perspective about a time in his life when he was, all things considered, relatively happy. Malcolm perceived Hawke’s absence differently than Hawke did himself, happy for him for completely different reasons.

_ Garrett has hardly come home at all this semester. Though I miss him, it will be for the best. I know I have been followed. They know where we live. Why no one has approached me yet I don’t know, but it’s surely just a matter of me. But if they are unaware of where Garrett is...I have hope that he may at least escape. It is through my own selfishness that I have doomed the rest of them: I could not bear to be parted from my family. _

Of course, Malcolm couldn’t know that the man at the other end of the loan would play the long game, pick off the Hawkes one by one over the course of many years, and Hawke has to wonder just what kind of sick, twisted fuck this Cory P. guy is to do something like that for what has to be a small amount of money in the grand scheme of things. Either this person is truly unbalanced with a random grudge match against Hawkes or he’s the logical kind of messed up, using the Hawke family to send the message that no one can get away with anything where he’s involved. The latter is infinitely more chilling. He needs to find the rest of those coded passages before he runs out of time. If only he knew when that would be.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Varric’s contact pulls through after a few days, sending a message Varric describes as “terse” when he calls.

“I’m surprised she got me that much,” he says. “Did I mention she kind of hates me?”

Hawke kicks lightly at the gravel on the rooftop and huffs a laugh. “Once or twice. Have you told Fenris?”

Varric is silent for a long moment, and Hawke assumes he’s trying to figure out how best to phrase the question,  _ Why don’t you tell him yourself? _ He and Fenris haven’t spoken to each other in about a week, not since their short, text discussion about lyrium. He knows he should stay in better communication, knows it would mean a lot to Fenris, help Fenris sleep better at night (if that's even possible), but he can't seem to bring himself to do it, not even in the relative privacy afforded him by his rooftop. There's a big enough part of his mind that insists he's not in deep enough to need to reach out to Fenris, as he'd promised he would.

There’s a small, quiet voice that asks if he would even recognize when he was in too deep until it was too late.

“Not yet. Figured I’d tell you the good news before sharing it with the broody one.” Varric’s tone has a note of forced jocularity to it, like he’s putting on a brave face for Hawke. It’s not unwelcome, Hawke supposes, though it does nothing to mitigate the fact that the Inquisitors are pulling their protective detail off Bethany in a few days. Not enough evidence is what Varric’s contact said, not enough evidence to presume that Bethany’s life would now be in danger as well. Hawke takes this to mean that they couldn’t find anything at the crime scene or during the autopsy to point to foul play of a Tevinter nature, and while that just means that Cory P. is good at hiding his tracks, it by extension means his sister will again be vulnerable.

“Ask him…” Hawke falters, closing his eyes and squeezing his phone. “Ah, he’ll know.”

He can practically hear Varric’s eyebrow raise on the other end of the line, but mercifully he stays quiet.

“I owe you, Varric.”

“Yeah, ya do. I’ll put it on your tab.” After a pause, Varric continues, “You can buy the booze for New Year’s.”

They share a laugh, as though in that moment they can both believe that Hawke will be around in another five months to do so.

That night at the Captain’s, Hawke eats in silence with the weariness of a man who knows he needs to but doesn’t feel any particular urge or craving. He catches Cullen’s eyes on him more than a few times, but neither of them say anything. Cullen may be curious, but Hawke hasn’t known him to pry unnecessarily, and since he’s not affecting any of their joint plans by not talking, there’s no issue for Cullen to address. Ostensibly Hawke’s here so that the two of the can go over something relating to a job next week, a solo operation for Hawke, his first since “officially” joining the Templars. As it stands, however, there’s not a lot to cover and Cullen finished his outline of the plan in ten minutes before they sat down to eat. 

They've been sitting in the living room for a few hours before Hawke finally shifts in his spot on the couch and leans forward, clasping his hands in front of his knees. He's not looking at the Captain, but he can feel those eyes on him. 

“I want to talk to the Commander.”

A controlled inhalation is the only sound, the only indication that Cullen heard what he said. The air conditioning unit kicks on, humming to life on the side of the house. The Captain never opens the windows, never lets the evening breeze cool his house down naturally. He can’t afford the risk. A house with its windows open is more likely to be broken into, an easier target for crimes of opportunity. Hawke hasn’t seen anything of real value around, no Templar documents on tables or in drawers, but the true high value target in the house would be the Captain himself, if anyone who wished him harm found out where he lived. And even were it just some unlucky burglar who accidentally killed the Captain in the course of their raid, the effects on the Templar Order would be far reaching.

Hawke raises his head to look at Cullen when the AC unit reaches the end of its cycle and the fan shuts off. Their body positions are near mirror images, but Cullen’s hands fidget softly, one thumb running up and down the back of the other hand, and he stares at the coffee table now instead of at Hawke. Hawke grinds his teeth, counting slowly down from thirty. When he reaches zero, he flexes his jaw and fixes his eyes on Cullen.

“Well?”

The Captain exhales, as measured a breath as before, and Hawke clenches his left hand into a fist to keep from doing anything he might regret, like rise from his seat and demand an answer, demand to be taken to the true authority. Because as much power as Cullen wields, as deep as the respect and fear of him carries within the hearts of true Templars, the Commander has more. She’s never spoken about except in hushed tones, a figurehead even more aloof and mysterious than the Captain somehow. Where Cullen occasionally walks through the men, the Commander has only been seen in private audiences and in small gatherings of the inner circle. Everyone who leaves her presence does so awed and intimidated, and they never speak of the details of their meeting with her to anyone. Hawke doesn’t even know what she looks like. 

He knows she plays favorites, that she has a group of Templars handpicked from the ranks who occasionally get sent off to run errands specifically for the Commander. Margitte wasn’t able to tell him much about that squad other than, in her opinion, they were a bunch of shits. “The bad kind of shits,” she’d said, knocking into him with her shoulder. “We’re the good kind.”

He also knows she’s ruthless when it comes to pruning the ranks of nonbelievers, and that’s one reason he’s glad he’s stayed off her radar for as long as he has. Perhaps that’s why the Captain hasn’t responded yet; he knows enough about who Hawke is to know that it could be dangerous for him to wave himself under the nose of the Commander. The Captain himself has been lying to the Commander for nearly a year and presumably knows how difficult an endeavor that is.

“Why?”

When the question finally comes, Hawke is a little taken aback. It’s not what he expected, he supposes, had rather assumed a more direct answer to be forthcoming, given the nature of their relationship. He hadn’t thought he would need to explain himself.

“It’s personal,” he says, crossing his arms on his knees. The Captain waits. Hawke expels an angry rush of air and shakes his head.

“Look, ser, I need a favor, OK? It’s important.” He pauses and licks his lips. “But I’d rather not ask it from you.”

Cullen looks wounded for a moment, only a moment, before something slips across his face and Hawke can’t see anything else from him.

“I understand. I will submit the request for you tomorrow.” He stands and turns to face the stairs, his back to Hawke. “Unless there is anything else…?”

Hawke shakes his head and murmurs, “no, ser,” and the Captain departs, head high, back straight. After a minute, Hawke’s head drops to hang just above his knees. He stays there, his mind whirling but strangely devoid of coherent thoughts, until one surfaces and nags at him, battering at the shores of his consciousness. Even so he sits, tapping his toes against the coffee table, resisting. Resisting until he can’t hold back the tide anymore and he rises from the couch to exit the Captain’s house, locking the door before he closes it behind him. He needs to get a decent night's sleep and he can’t get that here.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Hawke’s first solo operation a few days later is boring as fuck. He’s tasked with standing in an unobtrusive location and observing and taking notes on the people entering and exiting a building across the street. Thankfully there’s an industrial chic coffeeshop making a one-business push for gentrification on the corner opposite the warehouse Hawke has his eye on. He brings a couple of Malcolm’s journals and some extra paper, taking two sets of notes as he sits on the outside patio and sips his coffee out of what honestly looks like someone’s old nail bin. At least it’s clean.

Margitte loaned him one of her hats to wear so he wouldn’t stick out so much, but he’s not sure it’s working the way she intended. People stare at him anyway, at the dreads hanging out from under the hat. He takes it off within the first few hours, using it instead to shield his notes from any prying eyes in the shop or behind the video cameras he can see scattered around.

There’s a section of code in one of the journals that he copies out, intending on filing it with the rest of the ones he has for future decryption. On his other page, he writes how many people enter and exit the warehouse and at what time. He takes a few unobtrusive photos with his phone. They won’t be any good for details, but he gets enough pictures to determine that there’s some sort of code lock on the door as well as a guard on the inside. Whatever this place is, the Qunari want to keep it locked down tight.

The Captain hadn’t mentioned the Qunari in his briefing, either because he didn’t know or he didn’t think Hawke needed to know or because it was a test. Hawke leans toward one of the latter two options. It’s not that hard to figure out who the people are; he even thinks he recognizes a few from run-ins over the last few months with the Templars. He watches the way the Qunari interact with each other, for the few moments he has when the door is open. He mentally catalogues who acts like they own the place and who seems cowed to be there, jotting quick descriptions of the former category in his notes. It’s difficult, at best, trying to differentiate the Qunari from each other, considering that gang seems to like to only initiate tall, broad, and brooding folk and they all paint their bodies with that red stuff, but he does what he can. Anything is better than nothing, he figures, especially since he has no idea how much information the Templars already have gathered on the Qunari. He operates on the assumption that it’s zero; any duplicate intel will be discarded and anything of interest he manages to get...well, perhaps it will help convince the Commander to meet with him.

Hawke gets some ridiculous, overpriced lunch box from the coffeeshop and stays for another few hours before he calls it a day, getting out of the area before anyone gets too suspicious about how long he was there. Or upset that he didn’t buy more during his time at the shop. Either would draw attention to him in a way he’s not keen on. 

He finalizes his notes back at the safehouse, up on his roof, and texts the Captain to no response. The man is probably busy and will text back later, Hawke figures, and folds the papers up to stick them in his back pocket. He stretches out his fingers and checks his phone for a response again before shoving it in his pocket, trapping the surveillance notes behind it.

Again, he spends a week without hearing from or seeing the Captain. A week where he doesn’t miss meals, doesn’t opt for prepackaged food or starvation. He hates himself for how much better he feels, how well he sleeps, the extra strength he can feel returning to his limbs, the renewed vigor in his steps, but he doesn’t stop. Margitte notices the change after a couple days and just grins at him and drags him to the practice ring to spar every day after that. She kicks his ass, but he’s improving, getting closer to beating her, a sick confidence fueling him. He’s starting to love it.

There are nights he sits up late, turning his phone over and over in his hands. He debates texting Fenris but pictures the disappointment on his face when he figures it out and dismisses the idea. He wouldn’t be able to handle that from Fenris, not now. Sometimes he runs his hand across the long-faded impression of the medallion’s chain on his throat, funneling the anger he still feels about its theft to the bottom of his heart, compressing it into a diamond of wrath for when he takes his revenge. He always sleeps before too long, though, the lyrium pulling him under as sure as anything.

In the moments he has to himself, when he’s not distracting himself with the basement gym or sparring with Margitte, his father’s journals or short Templar raids on Qunari holdings under the direction of T or Donnic, he considers what he’s doing. Never hard enough to stop, just enough to hang his head, to wonder if he’s doing the right thing. To feel the guilt start to gnaw at him then shove it aside, down to join the rest. He’d promised himself long ago that he wouldn’t let a little thing like guilt or regret stop him from doing what had to be done; he’s perfected the art of nipping it in the bud, only allowing the lightest of touches in order to keep him going and ignoring the rest.

Halfway through a sparring session with Margitte, he notices T watching them from the stairs. He’s leaned against the wall just inside the room and staring, arms folded as though he’s appraising their match. Hawke is used to gawkers by now, he and Margitte seem to draw a crowd every time they step into the ring together, and files T’s presence into the corner of his mind where it can’t sidetrack him. The longer he spends with the Templars, the less he’s impressed or intimidated by T, and the fact that Hawke now has what amounts to the Captain’s protection means T can’t touch him. The rumors of his involvement with Cullen have been useful, he’ll grant them that, even if he’s been distant lately.

He leans backward to avoid a roundhouse from Margitte and grins, stepping into her guard before she can complete the turn. He jabs a fist into her solar plexus, but she blocks the elbow he sends at her face, pushing it down and away with enough force to make him stumble. He catches the knee coming for his chin, hands wrapping around her calf and thigh, and twists. Margitte hits the floor face first and tries to roll, but Hawke is on her with a knee between her shoulderblades before she can shimmy away. He grabs the arm she flails at him in an attempt to dislodge him and holds it behind her back.

“You look like a fish,” he says, chuckling as she squirms to no avail. “Admit it, I won this round.”

“You’re getting better.” Margitte accepts the hand Hawke offers to help her up, attempting to pull him off balance as she rises. Hawke just laughs and lets her flip him, bouncing back to his feet at the other end of the ring. He opens his arms wide and his smile is fierce and bright and true as she scowls at him. “I don’t like it.”

“Gone are the days when you could beat me.” 

Margitte squints at him, and they exit the ring to a small chorus of groans, everyone who’d been watching now having to go back to whatever it was they’d been doing previously. “OK, round two tomorrow. We’ll see if your luck holds.”

“You’ll be disappointed,” he tells her, winking and turning toward the stairs. T, his red hair and goatee immaculate as ever, pushes off the wall to stand straight when Hawke approaches. They nod in greeting at each other, and Hawke rolls a hand at the older Templar, as if to say “get on with it.” T is not impressed. He gestures up the stairs, and Hawke walks beside him to the first floor and into the broom closet that passes for an office in the safehouse. Donnic, seated at the desk when they walk in, vacates when T tells him to, his face expressionless as he passes Hawke. T takes a seat, folds his hands on the desk, and looks up at Hawke, who’s leaning against the closed door, hands in his pockets.

“I hear you have some surveillance for me.”

Hawke raises an eyebrow. “That so.”

T sighs. “You may think that because the Captain has inducted you, that grants you the privilege to speak to me as you wish. I assure you, it does not. Now, give me the surveillance you have on the compound, and we can both go our separate ways.”

“Nah.” Hawke scratches his nose and rolls his shoulders against the door. “Captain told me to give it to him; that’s what I intend to do.”

“Your loyalty is...commendable, but he—”

“Don’t care.”

“What?”

Hawke grins at the look on T’s face, barely contained righteous fury curling at the corners of his mustache. T rises from his chair, hands planted flat on the table, and leans toward Hawke.

“You will give me—”

“Nope. If the Captain wants what I have, he can come get it himself,” Hawke holds up a finger, “or tell me to give it to someone else.” He raises a second. “And since he didn’t contact me…” He shrugs. “Guess you’re not getting anything.”

T stares at Hawke for several minutes, and Hawke stares right back, crossing his arms over his chest. He blinks lazily, knowing that T will lose this battle of wills. The man isn’t used to anyone questioning his authority like this and will cave before too long to go find somewhere and someone that will bend properly. But he’ll be back, this Hawke knows as well, and he’ll be armed better next time. There are no guarantees that Hawke will win the war, but he’ll take his victories where he can.

“Get out,” T snaps, flinging an arm toward the door, and Hawke levers himself off it. As his hand grips the knob, he hears, “You’ll be sorry,” but he swings the door open and exits the room as though he hadn’t.

A day later, Donnic pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, one hand outstretched, and Hawke gives him the pages of his notes.

“What could possibly have possessed you to do such a thing?”

Hawke shrugs. “I don’t like him.”

“Ah. Of course. Maker, how does Aveline put up with you?”

“I’m charming.”

Donnic shakes his head. “Right. I’ll get this to the Captain. Our thanks, Hawke.”

Hawke salutes, a little too sloppy to be proper, and turns on his heel.

“Oh, and Hawke?” Hawke pauses, looking back over his shoulder. Donnic seated at this desk in the broom closet somehow seems to take up more space than T did, somehow owns the square footage in a way that T just couldn’t match. He drops his hand from his face and jerks his head upward. “The Captain would like to speak with you.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Hawke doesn’t speak until he and Cullen are side by side on the rooftop, staring out over Kirkwall toward Hightown. It’s a little unnerving that Cullen has oriented himself that way. Hawke knows he’s got a nasty habit of staring out toward Hightown whenever he’s up here, and it seems the Captain has noticed. He’s not sure whether this is a gesture meant to reassure, that it means Cullen knows what he has at stake and will look out for him, or if it’s intended as a minor threat, that it means Cullen knows what he has at stake and will use it against him if he must. The former seems infinitely more likely, but he guards against the latter nonetheless.

He folds his arms across his chest, appraises the Captain out of the corner of his eye, then turns his attention back to Hightown. If he squints, he can trick himself into believing he can see the giant church in Fenris’s neighborhood.

“Little dramatic, don’t you think, ser?”

Cullen side-eyes Hawke but the corner of his mouth tips upward. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Hawke snorts and shrugs and waits for Cullen to speak again. He imagines that he can make out where Fenris’s mansion is, based on the supposed location of the church, and frowns. Fenris hasn’t texted him since that night, but of course, Hawke hasn’t texted him either. It’s going on three weeks now with no communication, and after the few days he spent with Fenris after Leandra’s death, to have no contact for this long feels...wrong. He licks his lips, shifts, and scratches at his ear with a knuckle. Maybe he’ll text later tonight, despite everything, just to see how he’s doing. Make sure Bethany’s alright now that she doesn’t have people from the Inquisition watching her. Lie when Fenris asks how he’s doing. He sighs. Fenris will be able to tell, he always can, but Hawke knows he won’t press the issue.

“You’re looking...well,” Cullen says, though he doesn’t look over at Hawke. His eyes are fixed on Hightown, not moving. Hawke’s nostrils flare at the insinuation behind the words.

“What was that place?” He clenches his teeth and flexes the fingers of his left hand, the one the Captain can’t see, before curling them into a fist.

Cullen turns to face him, one boot up on the lip of the roof, leaning on his thigh. The look on his face is openly contemplative, eyes wide but relaxed, head canted slightly to the right. He opens his mouth, pauses, then shakes his head lightly.

“What do you think it was?”

Hawke squints over at the Captain, annoyed at his response but grateful for the accepted subject change. “You and your goddamn tests.” Cullen quirks his lips again and Hawke rolls his eyes. “Fine. It’s fairly obviously a distribution center, for what I’m not sure, though I could hazard a guess if you wanted.” Cullen gestures with a hand for Hawke to continue. “Lyrium, most likely. Would explain why the Templars are so jumpy about these guys taking territory. Hard to control the supply when you’re not the only player. Must be why you’re getting dodgy, too.”

“Dodgy?”

“You’re usually in touch more often.” Hawke shrugs. “Not that anyone else is going to notice. You’re otherwise acting normal.”

Cullen shakes his head and huffs a quiet laugh. “One of these days I will stop underestimating your perceptiveness.”

“Please don’t,” Hawke says. “It’s really the only thing I have going for me.” His phone vibrates in his pocket, but he ignores it, and the accompanying skip to his heartbeat, and clenches one hand into a fist.

“You are right,” Cullen offers after a moment, staring down at the street below them. “About the building. I can’t say much more yet but… I fear the conflict I see on the horizon. I will need you, Hawke.”

Hawke nods, runs his tongue along his teeth. He knew, in the beginning, what could be asked of him in his work with the Templars. And Maker help him, he still walked in with his head up and his eyes open. Perhaps his less legitimate work with Meeran was a little too far in the past to easily recall when weighing his options to join, but he could never forget it completely. And those memories he thought he’d buried deep enough to not interfere with his life, to not resurface, are digging their way up anyway, one by one, to trawl for the guilt they didn’t elicit in him the first time. They’ll be disappointed again; Hawke has no time to regret the choices he’s made. He’ll live with the consequences. It’s what he does.

“Anything, ser. You know that.”

Cullen’s head jerks up, and he meets Hawke’s gaze with wide eyes before blinking slowly. When their eyes meet again, the lines of his face are smooth, every inch the implacable Captain. He nods at Hawke and turns to leave the roof. When he speaks, Hawke has to strain to hear him over the crunch of the gravel as he walks.

“I pray it will not come to that, Maker willing.”

Hawke remains on the roof for a good fifteen minutes after the Captain’ departs, turning over Cullen’s words in his mind. They sound ominous. He doesn’t like it. Not that it matters much, in the end. He’s here and he’s pledged himself to Cullen, so whatever comes, comes.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, and his heart flops in his chest, making it hard to breathe. His thumb brushes lightly across the screen before deleting the text: a selfie of Bethany hugging Cheerio, with the caption **_Love you <3_**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, it's been forever since I updated and I'm sorry, please have this small token of affection  
> My love and thanks to anyone who's still sticking around


	39. Chapter Thirty-Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke is lost and found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music recs: ["Evil That Men Do" - Iron Maiden](https://youtu.be/M6JpxDebokM)  
> ["Soldier" - Fleurie](https://youtu.be/3j_ulN7UMZY)
> 
> warning for a fairly graphic scene of violence in the first section, a little above and beyond the normal fare here
> 
> hope you enjoy this 11.5k monster of a chapter

Hawke throws himself into work. He still hasn’t texted Fenris, and with each passing day, it feels more and more like an impossibility. The longer they go, the larger the gap gets between them and the harder it is to build a bridge across. He hopes, perhaps foolishly, that Fenris is doing fine and that’s why he isn’t texting: because there’s nothing to tell Hawke, nothing Fenris needs him for. It’s more likely that Fenris simply isn’t in contact for the same reason that Hawke isn’t.

The Templars don’t attack the warehouse Hawke staked out. They do, however, hit nearly every other establishment in a slowly tightening ring around it. It’s random, or as random as attacks like this can be when there’s a clear target, but when he listens to the other Templars back at their safehouse, it seems no one else has figured out where they’re going or what they’re doing. It’s just another day at the office to them. And that’s just as well, really. It means the people out on patrols with him have their heads clear and their minds focused; they aren’t concerned about what will come, just what is. Hawke envies them sometimes, as he watches them laugh and shout over meals at the safehouse, and wishes he remembered ever having any truly carefree days in his life.

When he’s not out raiding or sparring with Margitte, Hawke secrets himself up to his rooftop, flipping through the last few journals he has left. A couple more coded passages pop up, and he copies those down, folding all of the codes together and sliding them into his wallet for (hopefully) safekeeping. He doesn’t intend on getting mugged again, but he is at least in better condition should the attempt be made against him. 

The time skip between the penultimate and final journals is a long stretch, nearly a year, and that has Hawke on edge even before he gets to the fourth entry. As he reads it, it references back to a date missing from Hawke’s journals. He tries to persuade himself that perhaps Malcolm forgot he hadn’t kept a journal for those months and moves on. When that happens a second and third time, however, he knows there’s something missing. There must be another journal that he doesn’t have. He’s certain he pulled every single one from his mother’s house when he was there at Thanksgiving last year, which means that it’s somewhere else. His options are few: either Leandra, somehow, had it separate from the others (doubtful) or it became separated from the rest and lost. Or stolen. Lost is marginally preferable to stolen, and though Hawke doesn’t know how anyone would have gotten close enough to Malcolm to steal one of his journals, that thought leaves his stomach an icy pit and dogs him for days.

What if the last piece to his father’s coded puzzle was in that journal? What if he left other clues or hypotheses about the identity of this Tevinter-connected loan shark there? Though Hawke knows the likelihood of Malcolm solving everything in the one book he doesn’t have access to is slim to none, he worries anyway. It would be just his luck to gather all the information he thought he needed, join the Templars to get the job done, and then be unable to move further because his intel isn’t actionable. Fuck. He barely resists throwing the last journal across the roof when he finishes it. 

That one ends just a few days before Malcolm’s death, and to see it written, it almost sounds as if Malcolm believed they were safe, that Cory P. had given it up for a lost cause. But Malcolm hadn’t stopped hunting for Cory’s identity, and that gives Hawke pause. Perhaps it was not the loan itself that took Malcolm’s life but the incessant small prodding he had done. Perhaps the invasion of privacy had done him in more surely than the abandonment of a debt. If that were the case, then it followed that the reason Cory P was after the rest of the family was that he must believe Malcolm had told them. Either that or he couldn’t risk the loose ends. Not that that idea is of much comfort, really. Whatever the reasoning behind it, the fact remains that he must be stopped before he succeeds in murdering the entire family. Hawke can’t protect Bethany from the grave, and though he knows that Fenris and Alistair will look after her in the event of his passing, he can’t say that getting the two of them caught in the crossfire makes him feel any better about it.

So he glues his nose to the coded pages, Googling as best he can about codes and how to break them and failing miserably. It’s not that he’s unintelligent, just that his strengths lie elsewhere. It’s what he tells himself, anyway, after the sixth attempt at decoding what looked like the easiest passage flops and yields absolute nonsense again.

Hawke folds forward where he sits on the lip of the roof and rests his forearms on the sun-warmed cement. He hangs his head, closes his eyes, and curls his hands into fists to prevent himself from picking at the little crevasses in the material with his blunt fingernails. There can be no doubt in his mind now that he needs help. Someone else to look at the journals, to see what he is incapable of seeing, to provide new angles at which to examine the codes. He just isn’t sure where that help should come from. At this point, who knows when or if he’ll be granted an audience with the Commander to seek the Templars’ aid. If he is, having decoded passages to provide more of a foundation for finding Cory might help sway them in favor of his revenge quest. That requires finding a way to do so, however, and Hawke isn't about to reach out to anyone he knows who may be able to help, even if Varric, Bethany, or Fenris would likely be able to crack these without much effort. He still wants to keep them all far away from what he's doing here, keep them where it's safe. Especially if Cory is attacking the family because of their suspected knowledge, he doesn't want to add anyone else to that list.

He's not going to get the help he wants. Hawke breathes in deep, blowing it out between his teeth. No matter how he presents this to the Commander, and he really doesn't know how he's going to present this to the Commander, he can't see a way for the Templars to agree to help. Best make his peace with it now. He’ll worry about what he’ll do about his membership in the organization later, after he gets his answer. Will he leave if they refuse? It would disappoint Cullen if he did, he knows, though Donnic would probably be relieved. His original reason for staying would have disappeared, and the only thing that may prompt him to stay is the loyalty he feels for the Captain. 

Hawke does his best to put that train of thought from his mind until the day that Cullen comes to him before a raid, pulling him aside to hand him a small slip of paper with a date, time, and address written on it. Cullen waits for Hawke to read it through a few times, then, after Hawke nods assent to his questioning look, pulls a lighter from his pocket and destroys the paper.

“Don’t be late,” is all the Captain says as he turns on his heel and strides off to deliver the pre-mission briefing to the full assembled Templars. Hawke finds it a little hard to concentrate on what it is he’s supposed to do, but he and Margitte are partnered again, as usual, so he’s not too worried that he’ll truly miss anything. She’ll give him shit for not paying attention, probably punch him, but she won’t withhold valuable mission intel. She’s too devoted to the Templars to even consider doing such a thing.

The date on the paper is the day after tomorrow, scheduled for a ridiculously early morning time, and taking place at a prestigious office building in Hightown. He supposes he shouldn’t really be surprised at the time, at least. He’s not the lowest fish in the food chain, but he isn’t that high up either. Setting a meeting for 5 am is a clear signal that his comfort is not being taken into account in this, and that’s nothing less than he expected. The Hightown address does shock him a little, until he considers why he thought the Commander would do any sort of business in the Gallows anyway. Just because that’s where the majority of the Templars’ holdings are doesn’t mean anything. She’s vastly more important than any other Templar, even the Captain, and her removal from the day to day makes sense. Besides, it’s incredibly shortsighted of him to assume that the Templars have nothing going on in other parts of the city. Just because he’s only been involved in Gallows and Darktown raids doesn’t mean there aren’t more sleight-of-handed things going on elsewhere. In fact, now that he takes a minute to think about it, strolling down the sidewalk with Margitte, if the Templars  _ didn’t _ have their fingers in more, and more lucrative, pots, he would accuse them of not taking advantage of the opportunities he knows are there. 

Not that it’s any of his business. At least the raid should be simple enough: cut off escape routes, burn the building down, and detain or cut down anyone who tries to leave after the fire’s been set. Hawke’s pretty sure the house was a lyrium storage facility from the color of the flames licking up the side of the building into the early morning sky. He clotheslines a Qunari who runs out of the house, leaving the dispatching of him to Margitte as he grapples with the next to come out of the burning building, smokeblind and coughing.

It’s almost unfair how easily he takes her down once his bowie knife sticks up into her ribs. He’d expected more of a fight after the last few raids and the first few Qunari he’d had the pleasure of sparring with. And by pleasure he means giant pain in the ass, since one of first few times facing off against the Qunari he got picked up and hurled into a support beam so hard he blacked out and broke his phone. He has a healthy respect for what the Qunari can do, since they seem to train all their people to be spectacularly dangerous in close combat situations. He wonders if this Qunari had perhaps inhaled too much of the lyrium smoke and it had dulled her senses. He can feel it trying to do the same to him, too much of a bad thing all at once, and backs up a few steps to stand farther away from the house, motioning Margitte to join him. Her eyes are already a little wide, and he’d lay odds his are too. Not good. 

The next Qunari out of the house on their side barrels straight into Hawke, either not knowing where he’s going or knowing exactly where he’s going. Hawke sets his feet and meets him head-on, the breath knocked out of him by the force of the Qunari’s rush, and they grapple for a minute before the Qunari manages to flip Hawke onto his back on the stone and straddle him. Hawke has a second to wonder if that should have hurt more than it did before the Qunari lands a solid jab to Hawke’s cheek, driving his head to one side, and that  _ really _ should hurt more than it does, before Hawke thrashes hard enough to throw him off and they both rise to crouching positions. The red paint across the Qunari’s face isn’t done in so much of a pattern as it is a splash, like this man had chosen simply to have a bucket of the stuff thrown at him rather than drawn in the intricate designs of most of his fellows. Hawke would take more time to study it if he had the opportunity, but the Qunari charges and Hawke meets him again rather than dodge to the side, both of them tumbling back to the ground, wrestling for control.

Somewhere in the struggle Hawke realizes that the Qunari, too, has a knife, one wickedly curved and slashing for his face, his neck, any exposed bit the Qunari can possibly reach. He loses a piece of flesh from his arm as the Qunari slices at him, but better that than to be struck across the throat. As the arc of the knife passes him, Hawke surges upward, bashing his head against the Qunari’s, attempting to angle it right but missing, it appears, as his vision blurs and doubles and tips on its axis. It’s a hard enough hit to knock the Qunari off balance, and Hawke scrambles backward as fast as he can move while the world spins. He knows where the Qunari is, directly in front of him, but he can’t trust his vision right now to give him an accurate picture. As much as he blinks, he still sees three paint-splashed men who are larger than he is.

Casting about to the side, a bad idea as the vertigo hits, he sees three Margittes facing off against three other Qunari and knows he’ll be getting no help from that quarter. Why did he think this would be a simple raid, again? He’d never imagined pride would be his downfall and yet… 

He gains his feet, keeping his eyes fixed on the triple-vision threat in front of him as he flips his bowie to a reverse grip and holds it level with his chest. The wound on his arm drips blood to the stone in front of him. He has a moment to enjoy the flicker of hesitation across the three Qunari’s faces before the red-painted mouths open in a snarl of rage as they charge him again. With the knife held ready, Hawke is able to parry the blow that comes for his face, but only just. Though he knows the center Qunari is the one to watch, the two to his sides distract him enough that he nearly misses. The strike doesn’t feel particularly forceful, the one good sign Hawke’s seen since this raid began, and as he deflects to the side, he lashes out with a booted foot at the center Qunari’s knee.

Something snaps and the Qunari goes down howling. He makes it hard for Hawke to get near for a finishing blow, swinging his knife wildly, and Hawke bares his teeth in a savage grin. A little thing like that won’t stop him: he’s feeling stronger than he ever has, faster,  _ better, _ even with the triple vision and vertigo. He times it as best he can with the erratic slashes of the Qunari’s knife and dodges inward when he sees it pass his position. Something feels slick on his side but he doesn’t have time to look down and see what it is because he’s inside the Qunari’s guard now, tackling him to the ground and pressing his knife into his throat until the Qunari stops moving because he can’t tell how much the Qunari is bleeding with all that red paint everywhere.

Hawke kneels on the body for a moment, catching his breath and trying to blink away the multiple corpses. He can hear Margitte’s war yell as she dispatches her opponent, and he looks up at her in time to share a fierce smile before another cry has him stumbling to his feet. He knows that voice just as he knows Margitte’s, and it has him moving out of position from his assigned side of the house. Behind him, Margitte yells something, probably calling him names and telling him to get back to where he’s supposed to be, but he can’t stay here, especially not when that cry sounds again, higher, strangled, fearful.

He rounds the corner of the house, skidding across the landscaping that no one thought to maintain, and barrels straight for the two Qunari that have two Cullens engaged in a desperate fight that the Captains are losing, heading inch by precious inch toward a drop off. He isn’t calling out now, focused on his opponent, on deflecting the giant fists directed at his face and torso. There’s blood coursing down the side of his face though, likely the result of the Qunari getting the early upper hand and probably what caused him to cry out.

Double vision is better than triple, so he’s got that going for him at least. He’s headed for the Qunari he thinks is the true threat, though he can’t be sure, and as he connects with a solid body, wrapping his arms around the massive man, he has a moment to be grateful that he got it right before they both are catapulted off the edge of the drop off by the force of Hawke’s momentum.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Hawke comes to, lying on his back, and he’s never had a worse headache in his life. He groans and tries to raise a hand to cover his face, but either his arm won’t respond or there’s something preventing him from moving because he can’t budge it. He tries his other, just to check, but can’t move that one either. The vertigo slams into him when he opens his eyes and sees two, three, four Cullens swimming above him. All of the Captain’s faces are lined and creased, frowns on all lips and foreheads, and Hawke wonders what it is that has him in such a state.

“Don’t move, Hawke,” the Captains say, as if Hawke were capable of doing so. He wants to and his mouth opens to say so, but all that seems to come out of him is a keening sound. The crease between Cullen’s eyebrows deepens, and he looks up and over to someone that Hawke can’t see from where he lies. 

“Get Pax, if you can. Report immediately if you don’t find him within a minute; we cannot wait for him.”

“Ser.”

Margitte, then, and he hears footsteps running off. He’s relieved and saddened she’s gone, wishing for the comfort of a friend who isn’t the Captain while also hating that she’s seeing him like this. Spread out, helpless… He has got to stop blacking out where she can find him. 

“What happened?” he asks the Captain, but it comes out like “whaappen?” He can now feel what must be Cullen’s legs holding his head in place and closes his eyes. Nothing good if he’s being immobilized and is still dizzy without the sight of multiple Cullens. Not that he can tell if anything is wrong with his body, the lyrium smoke still coursing through him, dulling any painful sensations that may be demanding his attention. He hears Cullen pull a phone from his pocket and dial. 

“I’m sorry, I know phone calls are… I need you at the medical plaza. Please. I believe it may be urgent.” A pause. “We haven’t been able to make a field determination yet, one of my men has gone to find the medic. I would feel better with you there.” Another short pause. “Thank you.”

Hawke wonders who Cullen was talking to. He’s never heard him speak that softly to any of the Templars under his command, always brusque and businesslike with them, though Hawke knows the affection he carries for each one. The softie. Hawke smiles at that, the thought amusing to him in his spinning state, and Cullen murmurs an admonishment at him to be still. His face must be fucked. Is all of him fucked? Is that why he can’t move?

He can’t remember what happened before he opened his eyes, or what happened after Cullen handed him that piece of paper...or what was  _ on _ that piece of paper. His eyes flash open and he struggles to rise, waving his arms in a desperate attempt to dislodge whatever is keeping him from moving. It’s more the shock of being able to move his arms than the Captain’s hoarse requests to keep still that calm him, and he blinks at the several arms he holds in front of his face for a moment before dropping them. He’s so tired. He aches all over and it’s not even the good kind of ache either. What the fuck did he do?

The Captain is being incredibly unforthcoming, tight-lipped and paler than usual when Hawke lifts his eyes to look, something he immediately regrets as a jolt of pain shoots through the lyrium fog to stab him just behind his eye sockets. He shuts his Maker-damned eyes again, spared from Cullen’s soft, “please, Hawke,” by the too-loud sound of running footsteps and raised voices. It’s too bad he can’t shut his ears as well as his eyes; it feels like his head is going to split open.

“’Draste’s ass, Captain, what the fuck are you doing? No, don’t move yet, just…” There’s rustling then what feels like a few sets of hands on his head as it’s held in place and something almost squishy is placed underneath. “OK, now back off and stop fluttering. Let me work.”

Hands against his face for a minute before they move on, gently probing at Hawke’s entire body. They pause at his side then press, and Hawke grimaces. Pax, has to be Pax, is muttering to himself as he moves on, and Hawke catches pieces and bits here and there about Hawke’s idiocy and how he’ll owe Pax after this if he hasn’t completely broken himself. He doesn’t really pay attention until Pax taps his face gently. He groans, trying to tilt his head away and swat at Pax with one hand.

“Well, that answers the question of if you can raise your arms,” Pax grumbles, gently guiding Hawke’s arm back down. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Fugyoo,” Hawke says. At Pax’s confused look, he raises his hand and folds down every finger except the middle one. That earns him a long-suffering eye roll.

“Just tell me your name. I’m trying to help you, believe it or not.”

Hawke’s just about to open his mouth and tell Pax he’s Empress Celene of Orlais, but Cullen’s hand on his shoulder stops him. The sight of so many sad, brown eyes coming into his field of vision is too much and he closes his eyes in a long blink. Damn Cullen and those puppy dog eyes.

“Hawke,” Hawke says. There’s a long pause and Cullen’s hand withdraws, though Hawke can still feel his hovering presence.

“Good. Do you know where you are?”

He must take too long to respond because Pax sighs, licks his lips, and tries to smile at him. Something must really be wrong for Pax to be nice.

“It’s not a graded quiz, Hawke. It’s OK if you don’t know where you are; it’s OK if you only have a vague idea. I just need to know.”

Hawke furrows his eyebrows, wishing he knew what had happened. Why won’t anyone just tell him? “Don’t know,” he says finally. “Was at the safehouse…”

“That’s right, we came from the safehouse.” Pax looks somewhat relieved at that answer, but he doesn’t hold back further questions or physical exercises, running Hawke through what feels like a well rehearsed battery of tests before he claps his hands on his knees and stands. He leaves Hawke’s limited view to speak in low voices with Cullen over to the side. They’re not talking loud enough for Hawke to make out the words. He tries, but he’s distracted by two Margittes bending over him. She looks more pissed than worried, which is comforting.

She brushes at something on his face and frowns. “Dumbass.” Well, he can’t argue with that. There isn’t any more she has to say, apparently, and she just crouches on her haunches next to him, occasionally glancing up and over to where he assumes Pax and Cullen are. Her lips twist up in a smirk at one point, and she pats his shoulder, chuckling.

“You’re gonna want to ask your choice squeeze next time you two find yourselves alone just how bad Pax reamed him for holding your head like that. Never seen the Captain that red.” She snorts. “Bet you have though.”

Hawke tries to roll his eyes and winces at the ache in his skull at the motion. He shoves at her with one hand. There isn’t a lot of force behind it and she doesn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her topple, just a wink as she stands back up. She nods and steps back deferentially as Cullen kneels. 

“We’re moving you now to a Templar facility. I have a doctor standing by to run some more tests.” The Captain huffs a laugh at the annoyed look that twists Hawke’s face. “And I’ll answer all the questions you have, I promise.  _ After _ the doctor checks you out.”

It takes four more Templars and a stretcher to get Hawke off the ground, into the back of a truck, and through the door at the Templar facility Cullen spoke of. It looks almost like a hospital, feels kind of like a hospital, and Hawke finds it a little odd that he’s never been here before, never knew it existed. Or did he? He doesn’t remember how he ended up on the ground after being at the safehouse, so maybe he doesn’t remember this facility for the same reason. It hurts to try and figure it out, so he stops and just lets himself be ferried down a hall and into a room. Everyone leaves but Cullen, who installs himself in a windowless corner, crossing his arms and legs, and stares at the door.

When Hawke looks up at the next face over his, it takes him a few seconds to recognize the graying hair, lifted eyebrows, and pursed lips. Karl clicks his tongue and makes disappointed noises deep in his throat, and Hawke just about gets up off that bed and walks out the door, away from the judging doctor.

Except for the fact that his body isn’t moving properly and also Cullen is there in a flash, his arm across Hawke’s chest in a hold eerily similar to the way Alistair had restrained him months ago in Anders’s clinic. He almost laughs at that: two different, blond Ferelden men holding him down. He’d say he has a type, but that’s not true anymore. There’s only one man he wants to have pinning him.

Hawke grabs Karl’s wrist as the doctor begins his examination, looking at him with wide eyes. “Don’t tell him,” he rasps. Not that Karl speaks directly to Fenris, it’s always through Anders. “Tell him: don’t tell him.”

Karl’s hands pause, and he regards Hawke flatly for a moment before shifting his gaze to Cullen and raising one eyebrow. Cullen apologizes softly as he pries Hawke’s hand from Karl, holding it on the bed for a few seconds before slowly letting go. The look on his face is one akin to agony as he backs away from the bed again, the paleness of his lips pressed tightly together keeping Hawke in place more surely than his arm. Hawke can feel the worry roll off the Captain in waves, a palpable fear permeating the room. Something has him spooked, and it’s this more than anything that makes him roll his eyes, despite the pain, and wave a hand at Karl to proceed.

Karl performs many tests similar to Pax’s, but his face stays impassive as he does so. He writes a few notes for the Captain, who works his jaw but nods and leaves the room. Hawke isn't sure how long he's gone, his relationship with time is… complicated right now, to say the least. But he complies as best he can with Karl's gestured instructions and answers his written questions, clinging to the knowledge that everything will be revealed to him in time. He's taken to another room where his whole body is subjected to scans. By the time Karl lets him come back to the original room, Hawke is exhausted. He passes out shortly after Karl lets him know it's safe to.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Cullen isn't anywhere Hawke can see when he wakes up. Of course, he's probably off handling some Templar business or other; much more important things happening in the world than reminding Hawke of what his mind is missing. He remembers Qunari but not what they did, can just see them standing in front of him, so he’s not sure if this is a memory or just the holdover from a dream. Not that he should be dreaming these days; the lyrium should see to that. There’s an IV bag hanging off to his side, and he wonders if they’ve laced it. His forearm is bandaged and he can feel one on his side too, but he doesn’t remember those wounds being cleaned and treated.

Someone comes in to check his vitals and ask a few questions, variations on the same things he’s been asked several times already. It takes every ounce of patience he can scrap together to answer as best he can and not simply bare his teeth and send the nurse running. Once they’re gone and he’s left alone again, however, he finds himself wishing he had some sort of company. His clothes had been taken away some time ago to facilitate the scans, and he’d been given a damn set of hospital pajamas. He casts about for his phone and finds it placed on the side table, within easy reach. He unlocks it and sends the text before his better judgment can stop him.

H:  **_hi_ **

F:  **_what’s wrong??_ **

H:  **_nothing_ **

H:  **_...i don’t know_ **

H:  **_my head hurts_ **

F:  **_what happened, Hawke?_ **

H:  **_don’t know, no one will tell me_ **

H:  **_i just…_ **

F:  **_where are you? Do you need me to come get you?_ **

Fenris is probably already gathering his things, preparing to make his excuses from work so he can be available if Hawke needs him, and Hawke feels a twinge of guilt low in his chest.

H:  **_i’m fine, they’re taking care of me_ **

H:  **_didn’t mean to worry you_ **

F:  **_...Hawke, I’ve been worried for weeks_ **

F:  **_can you tell me what you do know?_ **

H:  **_i remember prepping for another raid...then i woke up on the ground somewhere else. don’t even know how the raid went, everyone was too busy asking me what i remember to tell me_ **

H:  **_lying in some templar hospital, got some tests run, head hurts, seeing double_ **

H:  **_i don’t like it_ **

F:  **_you aren’t planning on breaking yourself out of there, are you?_ **

F:  **_because don’t_ **

H:  **_couldn’t if i wanted to right now_ **

H:  **_distract me...please_ **

F:  **_very well_ **

F:  **_Bethany is doing well, we walk your dog on the weekends. She has been painting a lot. The living room is full of landscapes and portraits. She...there is one of me. I was not supposed to tell you that. I believe she intends to gift it to you. Please act surprised._ **

F:  **_Varric worries. He has not said anything, but I can see it in his face when he looks at me. Isabela is much the same, though she has mentioned that she will kick your ass the next time she sees you. Zevran misses your ass._ **

H:  **_she’s welcome to try…._ **

F:  **_Bull is a good bouncer, but I prefer you. I do not wish to kiss Bull._ **

F:  **_Work is much the same as ever. The Harimanns threw quite the party last week, though. It...reminded me of you._ **

H:  **_you mean you wanted me to be able to bring you leftovers like last time_ **

F:  **_I would not have minded your company, as well_ **

H:  **_how is ave?_ **

F:  **_Aveline has missed nearly as many game nights as you have, recently. She apologizes every time she shows up, says that work has her very busy right now. She does look quite tired, but I have seen her look at your chair and frown. She knows something._ **

H:  **_she’s probably realized where i am and that she can’t do anything...fuck_ **

H:  **_tell me something else, i can’t deal with that right now_ **

F:  **_I miss you, Hawke._ **

F:  **_I fear every day that you have not been in touch because something has happened and left you incapacitated or dead._ **

H:  **_fuck...fenris…_ **

F:  **_I am relieved beyond measure to hear from you, regardless of the circumstances. Please allow the Templars to treat you fully. I do not wish you to injure your head further by being stubborn._ **

F:  **_I need you to come back, Hawke. Come back to me._ **

H:  **_i miss you too fenris_ **

H:  **_i’m getting close, i have a meeting with the commander...soon. i don’t remember when, that’s lost with the rest of it, but soon...hopefully it will be over soon_ **

H:  **_i want to come home_ **

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

He’s released after another day, or what feels like another day. He doesn’t really keep track of exactly when he leaves since he’s not sure when it was he was admitted. Karl glares at him and writes him threatening messages to tell him to rest as much as he can, and Cullen admits, as he steers Hawke toward his waiting car, that Karl has pulled rank and told him in no uncertain terms that Hawke isn’t to be allowed on any raids for at least a few weeks. 

“You’ve a moderate concussion, Hawke,” he says by way of explanation, as if that explains everything. If Hawke’s being fair, he supposes it does; he’s liable to do worse to himself if he tries to jump back in too quickly. It rankles, but with Cullen’s steady, sad gaze and Fenris’s words, he sighs and promises to try and be content with not getting to do anything.

“I thought we could talk at my house, if that’s alright with you.”

“Finally.”

Cullen coughs and grips the wheel instead of responding, driving them in a slow, meandering route that takes them around his neighborhood two and a half times before making it to the house. He sets Hawke up on the couch with the afghan he’d used that first night after returning to the Templars and retreats to the kitchen for a while. Hawke starts to drift off while Cullen bumps around, the small clatters and curses somewhat soothing after the sterile quiet of the Templar hospital. The Captain’s house has always been a comfortable place for him, anyway, and he drops into an easy sleep.

Or it's easy until the paint-splashed Qunari looms out of nowhere, swinging a greataxe toward his face, and he wakes screaming, his head pounding abominably as he jerks upright. Cullen watches him from his armchair, lips drawn tight, eyebrows furrowed. There’s a glass of water on the coffee table, and Hawke grabs it and drains it, avoiding Cullen’s eyes as he sets it back on the table.

“I’m afraid you're detoxing again,” Cullen says, his tone mild but in it is the rebuke Hawke always knew he saw in the man’s eyes. “Happens to everyone who goes through the hospital, can’t keep you on lyrium while treating you for injuries. You got…we all got...quite the dose from the smoke there.”

And here Hawke finally raises his eyes to look up at the Captain. We, he said. Cullen’s hands are folded, gripping tightly to each other if the white knuckles are anything to go by, and now that he’s not speaking, his mouth works, teeth kneading into the flesh of his bottom lip, worrying at it. He’ll break the skin if he keeps it up much longer.

“Shit, Cullen…” Hawke drops his head into his hands, letting them hold up the weight his neck doesn’t want to.

“I will be fine.” He doesn’t sound fine, more like he’s trying to convince himself. “I have done this once before, after all.”

Hawke grinds his teeth. “Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That you’d be exposed.”

“It was a distinct possibility.”

“Maker, Cullen, and you still went...wherever the fuck we were?”

“It is my duty,” the Captain snaps, and Hawke can feel the stare leveled at him through his skull. It strikes up the pounding in his head to a vibrant warbeat, and he groans, falling back over to lie prone on the couch.

“Fine. Martyr yourself for assholes who won’t give a shit when you’re gone. Just tell me what happened.” Hawke tucks his face into his elbow, the darkness helping his head calm the fuck down, just a little.

“I only know some,” Cullen apologizes. “You were separated from me for most of the raid…” He clears his throat, seeming to realize he’s beginning in the middle, and starts again. “You remember my visit to the safehouse. We left after the briefing in our groups, not a very large force, perhaps smaller than was actually necessary… You and Margitte took your own way there. She will be the best person to ask for...most of the night’s events, actually.” 

At least Cullen has the good grace to sound contrite when he admits to that. Hawke still growls at him. He may not have cooperated quite so well if he had known Cullen wouldn’t be able to tell him everything as he promised, and it’s somewhat disquieting that the Captain knows him that well, to be able to play him like that. Perhaps the most discomfiting thing is that he  _ would. _ Hawke wonders if maybe his vision of the Captain is softer than what the man is actually capable of. He’ll have to revisit and revise his estimation.

“What I know is that the house we raided was a lyrium storage facility and that setting fire to it may have been, well, certainly not our best idea, though it was effective in destroying their stores.” Hawke can hear Cullen scratching his head and snorts. “I was taken off guard by a Qunari charging from the house. He had the upper hand and may have succeeded in driving me off the ledge if you had not come along. I’ve never seen that look in your eye before… You tackled that Qunari straight off the ledge with no hesitation at all.”

Cullen pauses, swallowing thickly, and Hawke can hear him shifting in his chair. “I thought you were dead for sure. The intel we had on the house didn’t include the depth of the drop off, and in the darkness it looked like it may go on forever. There were no sounds to indicate if either of you had survived the fall and I very nearly… Margitte came over with her phone as a flashlight, and we found a nearby set of stairs.

“The Qunari looked to have died on impact, and you were motionless beside him. We feared the worst. Margitte may have yelled at you, for all the good that did. I stabilized your head and sent Margitte for Pax. I believe you regained consciousness about that time.”

Hawke mulls this over, frowning as the recitation of events does little to jog his memory. “Mission accomplished?” he asks, and Cullen barks a startled laugh.

“The house burned down without taking the neighborhood and all hostiles were eliminated. Aside from a few of ours who were injured, yes, mission accomplished.”

“Suppose that’s good.” Hawke nods, more to himself than anything since he’s not sure whether Cullen can see his head flat on the couch from his armchair. “You… You’ll need to remind me what was on that piece of paper too, though.”

Breath hisses between the Captain’s teeth, and he clicks his tongue. “That is lost to you, as well?”

Hawke spreads his arms as wide as he can, wincing as the light in the house hits his face. “Last thing I truly remember is you handing it to me.” He replaces his arm with a grunt— 

“I am forbidden from giving the information a second time.”

—and immediately flings it back off, pushing upright to turn and stare at Cullen. “You can’t be fucking serious.”

The Captain looks toward the kitchen, and Hawke can read conflict in the downward curve of his brow and mouth, the way his lips twitch and his nostrils flare. He’s warring against himself and cannot win, no matter which side loses. It’s a shitty position to be in, but Hawke doesn’t care. His head has not stopped hurting since he regained consciousness after his apparently spectacular takedown of that Qunari, and he has no patience for Templar bullshit that keeps him from what he has to do.

“Dammit, Cullen, I need this. You can’t... _ I need this. _ ” Cullen’s eye twitches and Hawke presses. “You can’t fucking trick me then not give me what you promised only to turn around and pull this out from under me too. Surely—”

“Perhaps,” Cullen interrupts smoothly, still not looking at Hawke, “given the circumstances...an exception might be made. But Hawke—” He turns so sharply, catching Hawke by surprise with his speed and the intensity of his gaze. “Under no conditions are you to tell the Commander about this. She must have no reason to suspect me if our plan is to succeed. I am already...compromised with this lyrium; she will notice the difference. We can give her nothing else. She would not hesitate to order us all executed as traitors at the slightest suspicion we may be working against her.”

Hawke nods; he can do nothing else, pinned by the Captain’s eyes as he is. “You saved my life, Hawke. I fully believe I would have died that night were it not for you. I owe you, as such.” Cullen blinks and the spell ends, Hawke sagging backward against the couch as Cullen examines the corner of the coffee table before standing and walking into the kitchen. He returns with another piece of paper, setting it next to Hawke’s water glass.

“Destroy it before you get there. They will check you for it. Your knives, as well, should be left at the safehouse or they will be confiscated before you meet the Commander. They will allow no threat to the Commander, slight as it may be.”

“Understood.” Hawke leans forward to grab the paper, reading it over a few times. He frowns and peers up at the Captain, standing on the other side of the coffee table, fidgeting with his hands.

“I asked her to move the time, to give you a few days to rest, but she said that any true Templar would meet with her regardless… I am sorry, Hawke.”

Hawke pulls his phone out and looks at the date and time (and the text from Fenris that reads  **_Isabela has created a new drink called the Salty Pirate. I do not recommend you try it._ ** ). He snorts at the text and runs a hand down his face. Somehow it’s nearly 6 pm the night before his meeting. He has less than eleven hours until he needs to be present in Hightown, which means he has less than nine or ten to be ready to meet with the Commander of the Templars so that he can walk there in time. The journals are at the safehouse, so he’ll need to add time in to get those…

“I will be making dinner shortly. You are welcome to stay as long as you need. For perhaps obvious reasons, we cannot travel together. But you need food and rest and will find both here. If…” Cullen catches himself before he continues and instead just nods at Hawke and retreats to the kitchen.

Hawke understands the choice in front of him but wishes he didn’t have to make it with this headache. He grits his teeth and lays back down, arm over his eyes, to see if he can sleep any more before he’s called for dinner.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Hawke arrives at the towering glass skyscraper ten minutes before 5 am, and two well armed and outfitted Templars usher him through the front doors, past the lobby, remarkable only for its bland appearance, and into a small room where he’s left alone for a few minutes. He pulls out the knife in his pocket and sets it, his phone, and his backpack on the table in the center. Then he finds the security camera he knew had to be there somewhere and stares at it for a solid thirty seconds before leaning against one of the walls in plain view, crossing his arms, and waiting.

The Templar who enters the room pulls up short at the sight of the knife on the table, though he does a passable imitation of pretending he didn’t. He picks it up, hands clad in latex gloves, and examines it, opening and closing the blade and studying it from every angle. He does the same with the phone before holding it out to Hawke to unlock, and then he pokes through a few settings before setting it back down. Each journal is removed from the backpack and opened, the spine examined, the bindings bent back until Hawke fears they’ll crack. He digs a canine into his cheek, taking care that the movement is small and unnoticeable to an observer. The Templar upends the backpack, shaking it then running his hands through every pocket. He motions to Hawke to remain where he is and opens the door to the room, handing the empty backpack out to someone in the hall, probably so they can run scans on it or something.

The Commander sure is paranoid.

Hawke is the next thing to be searched, because they don’t believe that the only things he had on his person he placed on the table. Maybe they’re more suspicious because he did that without being prompted. There’s no way to know for sure. He runs his tongue along his teeth, pushing his lips up in unintentional sneers as the Templar pats him down. He tolerates the man pulling a hand held metal detector out and running it around his body, and only barely holds onto his composure when, with no preamble or question, the Templar shoves his hands up under Hawke’s t-shirt and brushes his fingers around Hawke’s torso, fingers dug just under the waistband of his jeans. 

The door to the room opens, and Hawke’s backpack is handed back in with a curt, “clear,” from whoever’s on the other side. The Templar repacks the journals into the backpack after taking one last look through them, flipping all the pages slowly. The knife the Templar keeps. Hawke hadn’t expected anything less, but he hadn’t wanted to make the walk up here without some sort of protection. Perhaps he’s the paranoid one.

He’s left alone again after that, and after another flat look at the camera, he purposefully crosses to the table and undoes the Templar’s work, putting the journals back in order and stacked neater. Then he’s back on his wall, looking at the time on his phone before letting out a long breath and preparing himself to wait for a while longer.

His head hurts, still hurts, despite the painkillers he’d pilfered from the Captain’s medicine cabinet before he left his house a few hours ago. What sleep he’d managed had come on the couch, and he’d barely woken to accept the food Cullen handed him before passing out again. An uneasy sleep, but he hadn’t expected anything else after the overdose on the raid left his system. The rest of it will work out of his system at a slower pace, as it had the last time, but he still feels cold and shaky in the wake of the loss of that high. The Commander is perceptive, so the Captain says, but Hawke hopes he can pass the symptoms off as part of the aftermath of his concussion.

He’d walked as quickly as his body allowed back to the safehouse, packed Malcolm’s journals, and set off for Hightown. He will perhaps come to regret not getting anything for breakfast, eventually, but for now he’s fine, riding the edges of his concussion and the lyrium drop as they overwhelm his body with enough sensations that hunger could get lost. Afterward he imagines he’ll get something to eat, maybe with Fenris, if he can convince himself that it won’t be putting him at risk to see him directly after meeting with the Commander of the Templars. Which means he’ll be eating alone.

No one comes to fetch him until ten past, and then it’s just the same Templar from before who opens the door, beckons him out, and walks him to a bank of elevators at the end of the hall.

“Twenty-third floor,” the Templar says, pushing the call button. “Door straight in front of you down the hall. Don’t stop anywhere else; go directly there.”

“Don’t collect $200,” Hawke mutters as he steps into the elevator. He taps the proper floor button and gives the Templar a two-fingered salute as the doors close. The interior of the elevator is classy but understated, muted burgundy and gold tones and a mirrored ceiling. Hawke shuts his eyes as the juddering of the elevator, however slight, jostles his head, and he grabs the handrail with enough force to creak the bolts that hold it to the wall. 

Twenty-three floors is entirely too many. When the elevator stops and the doors ding open, he props his arm into the space between them and just stands for a minute, ignoring the ever more insistent dinging. Finally he makes his way down the hallway toward the one door at the end. The hall is indistinguishable from other office buildings he’s been in, though it’s clearly of a higher caliber than most. The whites are crisper, the lines of paint cleaner, the floors spotless, no fingerprints on any of the glass windows or doors he passes. None of the lights are on, too early in the morning for any employees who work at whatever cover company this is to be here. Only the dim lights ahead guide his way to the end where light pours out of the frosted glass of the large conference room. 

Hawke nearly laughs at how utterly  _ typical _ it all looks when he enters, the large, oblong table in the center flanked by red leather chairs, only a few of which are occupied. All of the fluorescent lights are illuminated, and Hawke can feel an ache beginning behind his eyes. It’s too bright, and as he looks around at the assembled people, only one of whom he recognizes, he can see the apologetic look on the Captain’s face before it's washed over in favor of the professional veneer Hawke hasn’t seen on him in a long time. He sets his jaw and looks away.

The Commander of the Templars stands behind the chair at the far end of the table, one hand curling around the top of it. Her blonde hair is pulled back from her face, professional and severe, and cold blue eyes watch his every movement. She looks immaculate, as though it isn’t a godawful time of the morning when the sun itself is barely cresting the horizon, her gray suit neat and pressed. Her fingernails are long and painted a vivid red. It clashes a little with the leather of the chair, but when she raises her hand to brush back strands of hair that haven’t fallen out of her updo, it fits with the rest of what she’s got going on. Not that Hawke has ever been a great judge of fashion, but the Commander looks dangerous, as though her perfectly tailored suit won’t stop her one jot if she decides to step on his throat and snuff out his life.

“You’re late.” Her voice is strong, authoritative, and Hawke fights an unconscious flinch at the censure in her words. She has quite the presence, he’ll give her that.

“Blame Ed downstairs for that, if you like.” The Commander stares at him until he continues, “Ed? You know, nice guy at the patdown station, real friendly with the frisk.”

The Commander blinks once, slowly, then says, “Charles.”

“Sure, sure.” Hawke spins the chair at the end of the table in a complete 360 then sits, resting one ankle on the opposite knee and setting his backpack next to him on the table. He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair for a moment before he catches a glimpse of Cullen’s face: lips pressed tight together, eyes half closed and staring at the table, nostrils flared. Hawke bites the inside of his cheek  and adjusts his posture, sitting straight and more forward in his chair, setting both feet on the floor, and folding his hands atop the table. One heel bounces off the ground, attempting to bleed his anxiety into the floor so it doesn’t betray him and sabotage his negotiations here. He squints a little against the brightness of the light in the room and offers the Commander a belated salute. Her lips thin but she pulls her chair out and sits as well.

“Tell me why I am here.”

Hawke bites back his first response and bares his teeth instead in what could pass as some sort of smile if you squinted. This is what the last few months have all been about, what his entire time with the Templars has been leading up to. Everything hinges on this moment, on his ability to convince the Commander that using the resources of the Templars to help him track down Cory P. is worth it, that one lowly foot soldier like himself is valuable enough to justify their time. Suddenly he doubts it all. He doesn’t have a more convincing argument than “you don’t want me to die, right?”, hadn’t been able to figure out how to phrase his request in the time since he’d asked the Captain for the meeting in the first place. It had made so much sense at the time, in his rage and grief after Fenris left him, that the Templars would have the resources and he could use them if he just joined up. But now, facing down the Commander across the long table, he’s not so sure. He clears his throat and takes a deep breath, stalling for time.

Cullen requested this meeting on his behalf; will Hawke’s failure here reflect poorly on him as well? That isn’t something Hawke had considered before, and it seems like an oversight now. Hopefully he won’t completely fuck over Cullen’s good standing with the Commander. That thought rallies him a little, determination to not prove a complete disappointment running down his spine and steeling him a little more. But as he looks at the Commander, that resolve melts and runs molten hot down into his leg, speeding the pace at which it jiggles under the table. Shit.

So he breathes in deep again, spreads his hands wide, and starts talking. He has more information to relate now than he did weeks ago to Fenris, and he gives as much detail as he can on what he does know. At one point he pulls out the journals, spreading them across the table, shoving one after he opens it across the surface to the Commander who simply peers at it from where she sits. He explains Malcolm’s suspicion that Cory P is Tevinter or has a connection to someone in Tevinter in order to have the sphere of influence Malcolm seemed to have found. He points out the coded passages and his belief that they hold the key to figuring out how to find Cory. He lays out the threat to his life, carefully glossing over Bethany and the additional threat to her; he doesn’t want the Templars’ attention on her any more than it may already be.

The Commander pauses him occasionally to ask questions, clarifying details on Cory P and the suspected connection to Tevinter, and demanding conjecture from him on the strength of Cory’s organization. The more questions she asks, the more Hawke feels he has no real information to offer; he has only the one source of intel and it’s a finite one, especially with the missing journal. He doesn’t understand some of her line of questioning but chalks that up to the haziness in his mind in the wake of the concussion. If it’s truly important, he tells himself he’ll be filled in later.

Keeping everything in order as he talks is difficult, and there are a few moments where he has to pause and work at remembering exactly which things go where in his story. He raises one hand to his head and holds it there as he speaks for a few minutes, as though that will assist in abating the furious ache there that only grows the longer he stays under these lights. The look the Commander gives him is subtle but appraising, and he nearly misses it, squinted as his eyes are. Whenever his eyes drift to Cullen, the man looks concerned, outraged, and heartbroken by turns, and it hits Hawke that he never told Cullen any of this, only that the thugs they took down together during Cullen’s initial evaluation of him had mugged him and his sister. He adds the guilt he feels at that to his pile and shoves it down into the dark where it belongs.

“I can’t find him alone,” he finishes, watching every person at the table before shifting to the Commander. “I don’t have the resources. It pains me but I must ask for help. I know you have no good reason to—”

“You’re right.” The Commander examines her nails, running her thumb along the edge of one. “You’ve presented me with a lot of information, I grant you, but I fail to see how assisting you in this...crusade will benefit the Templar Order.”

“Aside from allowing me to continue to live and serve, you mean.”

“Just so.”

Hawke blinks and works his mouth, doing his best to not stare at Cullen for support. “And that’s not enough for you? Saving the life of one of your Templars who has saved at least four others, including a lieutenant and your very own Captain?”

“For which I am grateful, do not mistake me,” the Commander says, looking up. “But you must realize you are asking for quite a lot. A favor which requires no small amount of effort on our part which benefits only a very small subsection of the Order. You are not irreplaceable. And much as I rely on my Captain, neither is he.”

Cullen nods, his face a stony mask, and Hawke grits his teeth so he doesn’t say anything too stupid. He remembers meeting the Captain for the first time on the roof of the safehouse and the way he had bristled at Hawke’s brush off of Templar lives.  _ “They are none of them expendable,” _ Cullen had said, and Hawke wonders just how often he has to bite his tongue around the Commander.

“Due respect, ser, that’s bullshit."

Hawke can hear Cullen suck in a breath as the room quiets even more than it had already been. The Commander pauses her thumb’s movement. She doesn’t move save for flicking her eyes up to stare at Hawke from under her eyebrows.

“What.” 

If Hawke thought her tone when he first arrived was imperious and commanding, that feeling has only escalated. Ice cracks under that single word, and Hawke can sense his already precarious footing begin to fall.

“I said it’s bullshit. If you can’t or won’t risk anything to save your own men then why are you in command? You wouldn’t  _ have _ a command if it weren’t for people like me. So respectfully, ser, it’s bullshit.”

Instead of responding to Hawke, the Commander blinks and fixes her eyes on Cullen. “This is the one you spoke so highly of? Whom you inducted through improper back channels due to your fondness? Perhaps your lieutenant is correct and you  _ are _ going soft.” The Captain doesn’t respond, just lowers his gaze. Hawke snarls, and not just from the tension now at a fever pitch behind his temples. Aside from Margitte, Cullen has been the only Templar to truly accept Hawke, and Hawke has perhaps become a little...protective of his Captain.

“Or perhaps I’m fucking good at what I do,” Hawke snaps, rising from his chair with a lurch, sending it wheeling back. He sways on his feet and grips the edge of the table to stabilize himself. “And worth it. Maybe you’d see that if you spent more time among those you claim to lead instead of hiding up here like some mysterious demigod. You send these men to die and you don’t even care, do you?”

The Commander lowers her hand and leans back in her chair, regarding Hawke as though he is no more than an insect she’s still debating about gathering into a cup to take outside or squishing and saving herself the trouble.

“A true Templar does not hesitate to give his life in service to the Order.”

Hawke’s hands tighten on the table. It does not break under the strain, it’s too thick and well made, but it groans at the stress, and Hawke takes delight in the tiny measure of fear he can see in the eyes of everyone around the table, but especially the small flick in the Commander’s, before it’s hidden away.

“You’re gonna run out of those eventually,” he says, leaning forward on the table and only partly for show. At the other end, the Commander leans forward to match him, setting her elbows on the table and resting her chin on the backs of her interlaced fingers.

“Is that a threat?”

Hawke grins, all teeth. “Not at all. I would never be so stupid as to threaten the Commander of the Templars in her own office. No, I’m just trying to educate you so you don’t throw away what you have.”

“And I suppose you would know all about that, wouldn’t you, Hawke?”

Hawke feels the ice underneath him shatter, and he plunges into a world of cold and dark where he can’t breathe. He fights to stay grounded, to remember what he came for and why he’s there, to focus on the task at hand, but it’s hard, so hard when the vicious certainty of  _ they know, the Templars know about Carver _ buffets at him like a riptide. It had been acceptable that Cullen knew. Hawke trusts him. He does not trust the Commander. Cullen would use his knowledge to help Hawke, to be a lens through which to view and make sense of Hawke’s actions. The Commander only seems to be interested in how she can use it to manipulate him. Hawke did not and could not protect his little brother in life, but he can sure as hell make sure no one ever uses Carver’s memory as a tool against him.

“You know nothing,” he growls, curling one hand into a fist and striking it against the table. Cullen and the others at the table jump, but the Commander doesn’t move.

“Perhaps,” she agrees, her tone indicating the opposite, and resumes her contemplation of her nails. “Regardless, this conversation is now over. You are dismissed. Return to your duties; we will hear no more of this.”

“That’s it? Just like that? There’s a murderer on the hunt for the rest of my family and you’re just going to let him come? Do you really care so little?”

The Commander rises from her chair, regal and tall, taller than he remembered when he walked in initially. She points one flawless finger toward the door, as casual and dismissive a gesture as Hawke has ever seen. “I said, no more.”

Hawke casts one more glance toward Cullen, whose eyes plead with him to go, to stop arguing and making it worse. So he goes, turning his back on the Commander and the Captain and other assembled persons and letting himself out of the room. The dimmer lights in the corridor feel better against his eyes, though the pain in his head still swarms and presses. He rests his forehead against the cool metal of the elevator control panel as it descends floors. The guards at the front don’t bother him and he doesn’t acknowledge them, just keeps walking, not paying attention to where his feet are taking him.

He ends up at a fountain in another part of Hightown, part of one of the small greenspace parks that dot the neighborhood, and sits on the ground with his back against the marble after splashing some of the water on his face. Beads form and drip off him as he hangs his head, crossing his arms on his knees. His eyes close against the rising sun and noise of the people who slowly filter into the park as part of their morning routines. They leave him alone, probably assuming him to be drunk, homeless, or both, and that suits him just fine. He doesn’t need anyone approaching him out of a misplaced sense of altruism. He lets the sounds wash over him in waves, riding the swells and troughs and trying to find a balance between them to combat the dizziness. He’s able to sink himself into a space where his hearing unfocuses and can feel himself nearly falling asleep when a familiar voice rouses him.

“Hawke?”

He doesn’t lift his head, just grunts in acknowledgment and waves a little with one hand. Silence, then Hawke can feel a presence kneeling between his legs, hands gently carding through the roots of his dreadlocks.

“What are you doing here?” Fenris asks, but that doesn’t sound to Hawke like the question he truly wants to ask. Hawke just unfolds his arms from where they block Fenris from getting any closer and wraps them around Fenris, pulling him in for an awkward hug, given that he still won’t raise his head, instead butting it against Fenris’s stomach. Fenris loops an arm around Hawke’s neck, still playing with his hair with the other hand. He kisses the crown of Hawke’s head and waits.

After a minute, Hawke loosens his arms and Fenris drops to sit cross legged in front of him, scooting as close as he can. Hawke moves his head to the side to allow it, turning his face to press his forehead into Fenris’s shoulder. On finding bare flesh, he pulls back a little and squints his eyes open. Fenris wears a plain black tank and a pair of clinging gray shorts that cut off at his knees, the feet crossed beneath him clad in running shoes. Hawke blinks. That’s new.

“What are you wearing?”

Fenris snorts. “Hello to you, too.” Hawke shrugs. “You happen to be sitting next to the fountain on my favorite running path.”

“Thought you worked out after work.”

Fenris frowns and shakes his head slightly. “Several of my old routines have been...disturbed,” he says. 

“Like sleeves?” Hawke mutters, setting his head back against Fenris’s arm. He feels more than hears Fenris’s snort of a laugh, and his lips twitch up even as his eyes close again.

“That is your sister’s fault. I still do not know how she convinced me to go shopping but,” Fenris shrugs and runs his hand down Hawke’s arm. “I am stared at more often, but I do overheat less and that has at least been good.” He taps his fingers against Hawke’s forearm.

“What are you doing here, Hawke?”

Hawke huffs. “You don’t sound happy to see me.”

Fenris brushes his fingers up Hawke’s arm and across his neck. “I am overjoyed, in fact. But given what you told me about your condition yesterday, I am worried.”

“That was yesterday?”

Fenris doesn’t respond for a minute. Then Hawke can feel Fenris shift beneath him, and suddenly they are standing, Fenris’s arm gripping his shoulders tight, supporting most of his weight. He doesn’t remember the walk back to Fenris’s house, barely recalls tumbling onto the couch in Fenris’s living room. His body feels heavy and immovable as he lies there, sleep coming to claim him as inexorable as the tide, and he has a moment to worry that he’s forgotten something before the wave pulls him under and he passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry also you're welcome?


	40. Chapter Forty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some things change and some things remain the same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music rec: ["Too Far Gone"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mn3F1gt71QA) \- Sir Sly

Hawke wakes to an unfamiliar world, light from outside warring against shades that cover windows that are not his. In the groggy, indistinct fog he inhabits, he’s not sure of much but he knows he is not home. Then Fenris walks through the clouds and he knows that he is. The only thing he can be certain of in this state is that wherever he is, if Fenris is there too, then it’ll be OK. The thought feels a bit maudlin and sentimental, but he’s not even on the right plane of existence anyway, so what does it matter if his mind is a bit over-poetic. 

Fenris steps quietly, moving like he thinks Hawke is asleep, rearranging some of the books in the stacks littered around the room. He returns a few volumes to what looks like their normal spots and pulls out several others, cradling them in his arms as he crouches to look through the titles on the floor. Hawke closes his eyes as the floor shifts and the stacks tip and tilt, threatening to fall. He doesn’t want to watch Fenris’s face teeter like the books and crumple when he has to pick them up. No sound hits his ears though, and before he can open them to see what happened, he’s whisked to some other plane.

This one features Bethany and Cheerio, who come through the door with fireflies in their wake. The lightning bugs follow them through the darkened forest Hawke finds himself in, twisting and turning around their forms. Hawke wonders why Cheerio doesn’t jump for them like he usually does, even though his entire body is wriggling with barely contained excitement. Bethany doesn’t let the dog close enough for Hawke to pet him, instead guiding him away from Hawke and under two trees that have grown together near their tops to make a sort of doorway. Hawke stretches an arm after them, but that exhausts him and he drops it quickly.

Somewhere else, the Commander finds him, has him bound and beaten by faceless, amorphous Templars.  _ Just like Carver, _ his mind chants,  _ just like Carver. _ There would be justice in this, he thinks, justice enough that he almost gives in and gives up, almost stops struggling and accepts his fate. He’s tired, so tired. But he can hear Fenris call his name from somewhere far away, his voice tinged with worry and fear. He can’t leave Fenris on his own, not after the somewhat tenuous peace they’d constructed from the ruins of their relationship. He surges, limbs suffused with a mad adrenaline, and shakes several of his attackers off, baring his teeth at the rest. The  _ whump _ sound of the Templars hitting the ground sends another shock of energy through his system and he laughs, loud and wild.

“Hawke...”

Fenris’s voice manages to be both softer and louder, coming from closer nearby now. Hawke stills and looks around, but all he sees are Templars, standing to advance on him again.

“Garrett, please.” 

Something warm touches his shoulder. In the panicked second Hawke has to try and reach for whatever it is, it squeezes, and he can feel fingers digging into him. He lands back in his body with a jolt, his first instinct to sit upright. But the hand on his shoulder holds him down. As Hawke’s eyes blink and adjust to being open, Fenris’s face slowly swims into view. Those beautiful dark eyebrows look like they’ve creased permanently in the middle of Fenris’s forehead, and Hawke tries to raise his hand to smooth them out.

He ends up smacking Fenris in the face. His limbs are heavy and disjointed, not properly obeying the commands he gives. Fenris still smiles, small and relieved, a harsh little exhalation escaping his parted lips. He snares Hawke’s hand with both of his, pressing a kiss to the back of it, and the warmth leaves Hawke’s shoulder.

Behind Fenris, the floor lamp in the corner is on its lowest setting, barely casting a glow. No other light permeates the room, and Hawke realizes he has no idea what day it is, though he can at least tell that it looks like late evening…or early morning. At least now that his eyes are open, the scenes he just lived through begin to fade like the dreams they were, and he releases the breath he’d been holding.

“Bethany,” he whispers. Fenris’s hands squeeze around his.

“She was here a few hours ago, along with your giant excuse for a dog.” 

Hawke’s heart sinks. Something in him says that it’s better she’s not there anymore; the rest of him just wants to see his baby sister, to see for himself that she’s alright, however futile a gesture it might be with Cory’s men likely bearing down on them and no Templar barrier between Bethany and the coming tide. He remembers that, can recall in horrible detail his recent meeting with the Commander and her refusal to lend him aid. Knows what it means for him and those he loves even if he’s still not sure where the fuck he is.

Fenris’s eyes narrow in concern when Hawke asks, and he presses his lips together for a minute before responding. “You are home with me. I couldn’t get you upstairs, however; you were fading too fast.” Hawke must look confused because Fenris continues, “After I found you by the fountain in the park outside my house.”

Something in that sounds familiar, and Hawke tries to think. “When?”

“Almost two days ago.”

Hawke’s phone is dead, he discovers, when he pulls it from his pocket. He holds it out to Fenris. Fenris nods and levers himself upright from the crouch he’d been in at Hawke’s side, one hand pushing off the couch, the other holding his lower back. Hawke squints at him.

“What happened?” If Fenris had been attacked by another group of Dan’s men, he hadn’t mentioned it yet.

Standing now, Fenris grabs Hawke’s phone and shakes it as if dismissing the question. “I fell over,” is all he says as he walks to the nearby side table, rummaging around for a power cable. He pulls the charging phone over as close to Hawke as possible, but it’s still unreachable from the couch, prone as he is. Hawke shakes off Fenris’s attempts to keep him down until finally, with a long-suffering sigh, Fenris relents and helps him sit up. He’s still half-sprawled on the couch, and now that he’s somewhat vertical, his head announces all its complaints as loudly as possible, but Hawke will take it. 

Fenris announces he’s going to bring Hawke food and leaves the room before Hawke can protest. So instead he turns his phone on, awkwardly maneuvering around the power cord, and sifts through the messages he’s received in the last two days. Most are inconsequential compared to one of the ones he received from the Captain:

Cap:  **_The Commander will have me bring you up on desertion charges if you don’t return tomorrow._ **

Comparing the time stamp on the text with the date on his phone tells him that he has less than twenty-four hours to get his ass back to the Templars or they’ll...what? Hunt him down and drag him back to be “tried” and punished? He knows what happens to Templars who desert or, rather, he knows what  _ he’s _ done to a deserter, and at the order of the Captain, no less. He doubts he’ll be spared any part of that if it comes down to it. 

When Fenris returns with soup and pieces of bread, Hawke’s still sitting with his hands over his face, staring at the floor though partially cracked fingers. Information about the Templars seems to be supplied easily by his brain, but when he requests anything to clear up the blur of time he’s experienced or to get a second opinion on if Fenris’s living room has always looked like this, he receives nothing. He has no idea what he’s done for the past two days in Fenris’s house, though hopefully he hasn’t embarrassed himself to too great a degree. At least Fenris is still willing to talk to him, so he crosses his fingers that he just slept the whole time and didn’t say anything awkward while he was unconscious.

Fenris helps Hawke situate the bowl of soup securely in his lap before cautiously sitting with his own food. They eat in silence, Fenris shifting in his seat occasionally, a pained look on his face as he adjusts his posture. He waves away Hawke’s concern every time he looks over, and Hawke frowns at his food. His bowl empties before he can really comprehend it, and he jams his bread into the bowl out of frustration anyway. To his right, Fenris’s bowl appears at the corner of his vision and bobs up and down. Hawke follows Fenris’s pointed look and raised eyebrows and dips his piece of bread into Fenris’s soup, nodding his gratitude. He nearly chokes on the smile he gets in return.

“I have to leave,” he says, performing the conversational equivalent of quickly ripping off a bandage. Rather than look at Fenris, he stares down at the bread he holds in his hand, dripping soup on one end. He drops it in his bowl.

“Can you even stand, Hawke?” 

His mind screams that  _ of course _ he can walk, what does Fenris take him for, while his body, when he tries to push himself off the couch, rebels and slides onto the floor instead, tipping the bowl over and rolling his sad piece of bread out across the rug. There, robbed of the accumulated warmth of the couch he’d been lying on for days, he starts to shiver, wracking jerks that seem to manifest from the deepest place at his core. With the speed and ease borne of practice, Fenris pulls the blanket on the back of the couch down, slipping off the couch himself to wrap both his arms and the blanket around Hawke. They sit there, not saying anything, Fenris’s solid arms doing more to warm Hawke than the blanket, until Hawke’s body relaxes and he leans back against the couch with a sigh.

“I have to leave.” This time his words are soft and pitched low, more plea than statement of fact. Fenris listens to Hawke as he explains what he was doing in Hightown and about the Captain’s text, loosening the hold of his arms but not letting go entirely. He brushes lips against Hawke’s hairline and rests his forehead against the top of Hawke’s shoulder.

“Why?”

“They’ll come after me if I don’t go, drag me back or kill me, if they have to. It wouldn’t matter if it were just me.” Hawke shakes his head. “But I can’t risk Bethany. They’d use her to get to me, and I won’t drag her on the run. She has a life here; she deserves to live it.”

“And you do not?”

Hawke reels from the whip crack in Fenris’s words and shrugs sheepishly, leaning forward to rest his chin on his drawn up knees. His own mortality has never bothered him; it’s always been others’ lives he worries about safeguarding. Malcolm’s death only cemented this mindset, he knows: it did not give rise to it. From the time that he was very young, since perhaps the birth of the twins, Hawke just  _ knew _ that he would not hesitate to sacrifice himself if it meant someone he loved would be OK. 

Bethany had butted heads with him about it on more than a few occasions, more frequently after Carver’s death, but she’d always backed down, shaking her head and just looking at him with those sad eyes. Since they met, Fenris hasn’t challenged him much on the subject, generally ceding and stepping aside in the face of Hawke’s sheer stubbornness. But this? He can hear the censure in the tone of his voice and knows if he looks over, he’ll see Fenris’s green eyes full of fire and steel. So he can’t look. He can’t look because if he does he might lose his resolve.

He wraps a hand around Fenris’s arm, holding him in place as though Fenris had any intention of going elsewhere. “I don’t want to go,” he says, speaking to the half wall that separates this room from the kitchen. “But I made this bed.”

Fenris snorts, loud and derisive, and the sound echoes through the quiet house. “You are not chained to your mistakes forever, Hawke. There is always a way out, even if you cannot see it.” He taps Hawke’s bicep with his hand. “I will help you, as someone once helped me.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Fenris empties his pantry into Hawke, or so it feels like, before he helps Hawke stand and they move toward his car. It does help, all of the additional calories, and by the time they’ve driven to a half-deserted parking lot on the edge of the Gallows, Hawke almost feels like a real person again. He’d convinced Fenris to drop him off before picking Bethany up from work and driving her home as he’d, apparently, been doing for most of the time Hawke has been gone. It does soothe him to know that his baby sister isn’t walking home alone at night, and he can’t deny that he’s glad Fenris gets another chance at having a sister, even as he’s jealous of that time they get together.

A hand on his forearm stops him before he exits the car, and he turns to face Fenris, not making eye contact for very long before he looks away. Fenris is grim, lips pressed tight together, eyebrows drawn low, and he doesn’t speak, just tugs on Hawke’s arm until he pulls him halfway over the center console. His hand traces up Hawke’s arm, over his shoulder, and to the back of his neck, where his fingers tense and dig in. He kisses Hawke, gently passionate, soft but no less intense for it, and Hawke whines. They haven’t kissed since the last time they said goodbye almost a month ago, and now here they are, doing it again. This what nearly undoes him.

Hawke covers Fenris’s hand on his neck with one of his and cups Fenris’s cheek with the other. He kisses Fenris again when he feels him begin to move away, enticing him to stay here a while longer, not letting him end this yet. He really,  _ really, _ does not want to go now, and he knows it would be easy to stay in the car, to let Fenris take him to see his sister, and to pretend like he’s done with that life. It would even be easy to pack up a few of his belongings and hit the road to find somewhere the Templars would be disinclined to follow him. It would not be easy after that.

He breaks away, resting his forehead against Fenris’s, and they breathe together for a moment.

“Stay safe, Garrett,” Fenris says at the same time as Hawke whispers, “Help me.”

Fenris’s fingers spasm almost painfully against Hawke’s neck, and he pulls Hawke close again for a searing kiss. “I promise you,” he says when he finally relents, “I will find a way out.” 

Hawke nods and brushes his lips against Fenris’s knuckles when his neck is released. He swallows, leans back in his seat, and nods again before getting out and shutting the car door in one swift motion. He raps on the window and walks away, looking down at the ground before resolutely raising his head and staring straight in front of him. He hears Fenris pull away after a minute, and he walks back to the safehouse alone.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

He seeks out Margitte as soon as he gets there, goading her into a fight. He loses spectacularly. His head still isn’t clear, and all the food Fenris stuffed him with is now making him drowsy. But he’s slept for nearly two days, according to Fenris, so he isn’t raring to get back to unconsciousness. Instead he texts Cullen that he’s back and wanders the halls of the safehouse, eyes narrowing at the bevvy of looks directed his way. He’s certain by the time he climbs to the top floor that there was some sort of scuttlebutt bandied around the safehouse in his time away. He’ll have to dig at Margitte for it, though the fact that she didn’t either poke fun at him for it while they sparred is worrying. She normally wouldn’t waste a chance to comment on something, especially if it involved him and the Captain. So he turns around and finds the next best person.

“Hi, Pax,” he says, crossing the bulk of the second floor medical facility to stand behind the ridiculously mustachioed man. Pax squeaks at Hawke’s approach and fumbles the bandage roll in his hands before managing to put it securely away in the cabinet. He closes the cabinet door then backs up so he’s not so close to Hawke, who looms uncomfortably far into Pax’s space.

“Want to answer some questions for me? Of course you do.” Hawke shows his teeth like a shark. He leans forward slightly and tilts his head to the right, eyes darting around the empty space to his left. It’s not a threat, just a quick check to make sure they’re alone, but it sure looks that way to the medic in front of him and it’s meant to.

“How are things around here? Any busier than normal?”

Pax swallows and wets his lips, eyes wide in confusion. ”N-no?” 

Hawke nods, as if considering this information and deciding what to do with it. Really he’s wondering just how blunt he should be with Pax, if he’ll get the answers he’s looking for by being subtle with the questioning or not.

“You know you shouldn’t be fighting with that concussion.” Pax’s words come out in a rush, and he cringes, like he expects Hawke to retaliate in some way. Hawke just narrows his eyes.

“Who says I’ve been fighting?”

Pax gestures, and Hawke probes at the corner of his mouth, his fingers coming away with a bit of still-fresh blood from a rather solid hit Margitte landed on him. He presses against his jaw where she’d scored another hit and feels the barest hint of pain, the sign he’ll have a bruise there before too long. Hawke runs his tongue across his teeth, frowning.

“Alright, I’ll make you a deal.” He grins at the look of sudden terror that crosses Pax’s face. “I’ll pinky swear to not do that again for a few days, and you tell me what you know from the last two days, specifically why I’m getting eyed more than usual.” To alleviate Pax’s fear, Hawke takes a step back, folding his arms and shifting his weight away. He waits out Pax’s suspicions, watching them flash across the man’s face as he deliberates what to do. It’s not as though Hawke has left him a lot of options, but he evaluates them all nonetheless.

“We thought you weren’t coming back this time.”

Hawke raises an eyebrow. “Two days and it’s assumed I’m gone for good?” He snorts. “Well, I know I’m not the most popular person around here, but really?”

Pax’s eyes shift to the side and back, and Hawke gestures for him to continue speaking. It still takes him a minute after confirming that no one’s keen on entering the clinic to open his mouth and spit it out. 

“Some of the guys said they heard you went to see the Commander,” Pax whispers, as if talking about her too loudly would bring the Commander down upon him in the flesh, “and that she kicked you out.”

“Who?”

“Look, I really shouldn’t—”

_ "Who? _ ” Hawke leans back in toward Pax. Against the cabinet, Pax shakes, looking futilely around for a way to escape Hawke and his questions. “They won’t hear your name from me,” Hawke says, crossing his finger over his heart. He’s about to assume Pax isn’t going to talk when Pax licks his lips, his mustache twitching ridiculously. 

“Karras. Keran said he’s been telling that to anyone who’ll listen.”

Hawke nods, making his best effort at keeping his face neutral. He pats Pax on the cheek and turns to leave.

“Bed rest!” Pax calls after him, his voice breaking in the middle. “You promised.”

Hawke waves as he rounds the corner to the stairs. He did promise, and once those few days are up, he and Karras are going to have some words. He takes the stairs to the next floor and searches his bed for signs that anyone has messed with it. It doesn’t comfort him that everything seems to be exactly as he left it; in fact, it nearly unnerves him more that he can find nothing wrong than if there were something slightly out of place. Nostrils flaring, he strips the bed with all the grace of a soldier and retrieves a set of fresh bedding from the drawers. Once the bed is made again, he rearranges all of his belongings under the bed, and only after that is done does he lie down, propping himself partly against the wall and closing his eyes.

How did Karras know about his meeting with the Commander? Only he and the Captain were supposed to have the information. And the other assembled important people, he supposes. Was one of them the leak? Cullen wouldn’t have revealed the meeting to anyone, even if he were asking about Hawke to the rank and file. Was Karras in cahoots with the Commander herself? Could she perhaps be the source? It might make sense: she has all of Hawke’s journals now, or so he assumes since he walked out without them, so what better way to get rid of him than to put out a rumor that he had deserted? Then, if he failed to show, he could be hunted down for turning traitor. And even if he came back, his credibility with his fellow Templars would likely see a massive decline. No one would believe she had stolen anything from him, especially now.

Sighing, Hawke laces his fingers behind his head. His inventory of assets is growing thin. Without the journals, all he has left are the people who haven’t given up on him: Fenris, Cullen, Margitte… It’s a short list. So what is he supposed to do with that? How are three people, two of whom have prior obligations to a shadowy criminal organization and none of whom have physical evidence to follow, going to help him find and remove Cory before Cory finds and removes him?

His eyes snap open. In terms of stupid ideas, he’s had worse, he supposes, and heads up to the roof to place a phone call.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

In the several days that Hawke takes to recover from the concussion, lounging in bed and glaring back at Pax when the medic pokes his head in to check on him, he learns more about the state of things in the wider Templar world. Apparently, despite all he and other Templars had done in the last months, the rest of the Qunari have dug into a few properties near the Docks and can’t be budged. Not that there’s been a lot of time to try, but the reports from the sorties that were sent out while he was gone and the couple that go while he’s tied to his bed aren’t hopeful. Based on what he’s heard of the properties they’ve chosen, Hawke doesn’t think much of the Templars’ chances. He doesn’t say as much to anyone, because what’s it to him at this point if the whole organization goes down trying to crush a competitor to ash? Freedom, that’s what, and he silently hopes everything goes south.

When Pax peers in on Hawke’s third day of rest, it’s to see Hawke standing at the side of his bed, patting down his pockets to be sure he has everything he wants to take with him on his person. Pax sighs and throws up his hands, but he doesn’t say anything contrarian as he turns back the way he came. It’s not like he knows for sure that Hawke is going to look for a fight, even though he is, but he probably assumes. A safe assumption, given Hawke’s history.

Hawke asks a few Templars around the house if they’ve seen Karras or know where he would be on a day like this. No one has an answer for him, but that’s alright; he hadn’t expected one. He rolls his shoulders, complains in a too-loud voice that he and Karras are due for some words concerning Hawke’s loyalties, and walks out of the safehouse. He makes a show of looking around when he opens the door, but deliberately ignores the two Templars who sneak out after him, conferring on the front step before splitting up. One of them tails Hawke, and the level of incompetence there is staggering: the guy doesn’t even try and fake it. The other heads off, presumably, hopefully, to let Karras know that Hawke’s looking for him.

He bores of wandering the city after a few hours and makes his way back to the safehouse before early afternoon. He’ll have more chances for this confrontation before the end, he’s sure. As he rounds the corner, he can see Karras leaning against the wall of the safehouse, just to the side of the door, and grins. Karras brought his whole coterie, but that’s fine by Hawke. He doesn’t have beef with any of the rest of them, except perhaps Samson and Wilmod, though he really wishes Keran would have learned by now and stopped hanging out with them. Alas not, he can see as he gets closer. Keran’s towhead is at the back of the group as usual, trying to hide. 

Before Hawke gets too close, Karras pushes from the wall and beckons, walking in the opposite direction. Hawke stops, watching them disappear around the other corner of the building, and tries to apply some logic or discretion to the situation, but the sight of Karras has reignited the smoldering embers of hatred in Hawke’s gut and he keeps walking almost as soon as he stops, just a momentary hiccup in his steps.

He does have the presence of mind to keep an eye on his surroundings, to remember which turns Karras and his gang make so that he can find his way back to the safehouse afterward. The alley Karras finally halts in looks enough like the one Carver died in that Hawke has to fight a sudden surge of instinct that screams at him to get out, get out  _ you’ll die here if you stay _ and he grips his hands into fists and focuses instead on the pricks of pain at the apex of each fingernail as they dig into the flesh of his palm.

When he does finally look around, truly look around, at the alley, he can see all the ways this one differs from  _ that one. _ This one has no lamppost, no stacking of boxes in one corner of the T intersection. No puddle of blood in the middle, though the longer he looks for it, the more he’s convinced he can almost see it. Hawke grits his teeth and looks at Karras instead.

The man's hair is wild, his mutton chops pointing in a couple directions, as if he’d just gotten up. That was possible, especially if he’d been out on assignment last night. But the hard glint in his eyes and the cruel twist of his lips just serve to make him look dangerous rather than soft. They stare across the space at each other, and it doesn’t escape Karras’s notice that Hawke hasn’t fully entered the main junction of the alley. He’s still back a few feet into the arm they arrived from, and Karras leers.

“You smoke me out and follow me like a puppy when I give the say so, but you won’t come into the big bad alley?”

Hawke squeezes his fists tighter against the  _ he knows, he knows _ that rattles through his head and takes three deliberate steps forward. It puts him a foot into the junction, close enough, he judges, and yet too far, both from smashing the man’s smug face into the ground and from anywhere that is not here. He breathes, tells himself there’s no way he could know, no way he could know  _ he wasn’t there at the meeting he wasn’t there for Carver _ and it almost works.

Karras laughs, and the ugly sound echoes off the alley walls. “What do you want, Hawke? You’re not even supposed to  _ be here. _ ”

“Yeah, funny thing about that.” Hawke uncurls one hand and examines his fingernails, willing his hand not to shake and betray him. “I don’t remember getting dismissed and the Captain doesn’t remember me getting dismissed, so I don’t know where you’re getting your patently false information, but it’s going to make you look bad one of these days.” 

Hawke desperately hopes that Cullen hasn’t seconded Karras’s statements. He knows he would if the Commander instructed him to, so he can only pin everything he has on the fact that Cullen wouldn’t do it unless he absolutely had to. It’s slim comfort. But Karras’s eyes narrow, and behind him Keran shifts from foot to foot, and Hawke knows Cullen hasn’t given him up. A slow grin curls his lips, and he’s stepping farther into the alley when he sees it. The Amell crest. Hanging on its chain from Karras’s neck like some sort of trophy. His fingers are closing on the skin of Karras’s throat before he’s half aware of it. Karras glares daggers at him, but Hawke can barely feel them.

“This is mine,” he says, reaching up to snap the chain on the crest. With both hands, he shoves Karras away from him, using the seconds it buys him to inch the chain up into his hand so nothing hangs out. Its safety assured, he raises both fists in a guard position around his face. 

Samson prevents Karras from stumbling too far back and sends him back at Hawke with a tap on his shoulders, but otherwise it looks like he’s content to remain out of it and let Karras handle things. Hawke has a moment to be grateful for that before Karras’s fist jabs out and he has to jerk backward, smacking the punch to the side with the hand holding the crest. It jostles painfully against his fingers, but he just grips it tighter and ducks in closer to send that hand in and up to drive the breath from Karras’s lungs.

Hawke has no mercy in him, not here, not for this fight, not today, so he’s moving backward with Karras as the man staggers and wheezes. His right hand tangles in the collar of Karras’s shirt, keeping him close, while his left assails his torso. Karras mounts a token defense, waving his arms and trying to bar one against Hawke’s neck, but Hawke bows his head and leaves no room for Karras to get in. He doesn’t stop striking Karras when the man goes limp in his arms, knows it has to be a ruse, but even when Karras’s knees buckle and he falls to the ground, Hawke still hits him again, and again for good measure.

Karras lies still, shallow breaths the only indication of life, and Hawke backs up a step. A drop of red splatters on the stone, then another, and Hawke stares at his hand, uncurling the fingers from around the crest to see where it had bitten into his skin.

“Don’t be stupid,” he says, movement catching the corner of his eye. He doesn’t look up from the crest. “Just take him and go.”

He steps farther away from the body, giving Samson, Keran, and the rest space enough to hoist Karras between a few of them and walk out of the alley. When they’re gone and he’s counted to sixty to let them get far enough away, Hawke leaves the alley intersection himself and slides to the ground at the entrance next to the street. He feels weak, limbs shaking and unwilling to carry him, so he sits with his legs splayed out in front of him, his left hand in his lap. 

The crest winks dully at him behind the gathering blood. With slow, deliberate movements, Hawke licks the fingers of his right hand and begins to clean the pendant and the chain. He watches as the red of the crest is revealed from under the sheen of blood, barely resisting the urge to again grip it tight and hold it close. Instead he raises his left hand to his mouth to clean it too, before loosely wrapping his fingers back around the precious piece of metal. 

There will be no Fenris to happen along him here and take him safely home, and Hawke frowns. He misses Fenris, and while that’s not a novel feeling for him, what shocks him is the force of the emotion, like a tidal wave that both threatens to drag him under while simultaneously buoying him. His eyes unfocus on the edge of the crest he can see through his fingers, and he uses that to ride the force of this maelstrom until he settles on something like solid ground between the push and pull. He feels larger than before, but in a good way, as though he’s at last found a way to keep Fenris with him while they’re apart.

When the shaking in his legs subsides, he drags himself to standing and walks to the nearest restaurant for something to eat so he can make it back to the safehouse without falling over and embarrassing himself. He perhaps should have grabbed something earlier, that may have helped his situation, but it’s too late to be smart now. 

There remains, still and again, the lyrium problem, and Hawke despairs of ever being rid of it now as he sits, head in his hand, waiting for his number to be called at the fast food place. Because he wants it, Maker help him, and he can see no way around it now that he’s gone back to the Templars. He went three days without after that overdose at the lyrium house, and it was an honest relief to live solely at the safehouse for another few days afterward. It makes him weak, and he hates it as much as he craves it for the strength it gives. It’s a false strength, and he knows this, but he can’t deny its usefulness even while he feels the leash being draped around his neck. At this point, he believes his best chance lies with people he can’t even contact directly, and that doesn’t exactly inspire a lot of confidence in him that he’ll eventually get out. 

He texts Fenris a picture of the crest to distract himself on the walk back. It’s not a productive line of thinking, the one comprised of everything he can’t control. At least he can attempt to keep their relationship afloat while the rest of his life sinks around him. Carefully, though; the last thing he wants to do is put Fenris in a compromising position because he was unwilling to let go again. So he deletes the text once he sends it, and once Fenris’s response comes in (a picture of the red cuff with a heart scrawled on a sticky note stuck to it), Hawke deletes that too. He takes a moment, phone held to his forehead, eyes closed, before he slips it back in his pocket and rounds the corner to the safehouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *endless screaming*
> 
> y'all....four months later I finally have a chapter to give you. To you who have stayed for this, thank you from the deep depths of my heart. At this point, I probably half-and-half write this for me and for y'all. This would not be here without you who read and interact. <3 Thank you.
> 
> Special shout outs to FN, Tiny, the Block, and the Bananas for never giving up on me and always encouraging when I'm stuck. I don't think I'll ever be able to truly put into words just how much everything you've said and done means to me.


	41. Chapter Forty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke reaches out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music recs: ["Beautiful Crime"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iMq3lQFFHFw) by Tamer  
> ["Kathy's Song"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oBYrZNZSbf4) by Apoptygma Berzerk

By degrees over the next few weeks, the atmosphere in the safehouse returns to what it had been before the desertion scandal, once the other Templars catch wind of what happened to Karras and after Pax clears him for active duty again and he promptly drags five Templars out of a cleverly designed Qunari trap. And all the while, Hawke waits, less and less patiently as the days go by, to be called back. If he doesn’t hear anything after a month or two, he figures, that’s when he’ll give up on them and look for another way out. He doesn’t have to wait on them for everything though, and so after his post-workout shower one morning, he blows Margitte a kiss and makes his circuitous, rambling way to Karl’s apartment complex. 

He feels no tails, but that doesn’t stop him from leaning against the building for ten minutes, consulting his phone and looking around the street. Not that it would necessarily be unusual for a Templar to visit one of their doctors, but Hawke suspects that Karl is a special case doctor, especially since and perhaps because of the situation in which he’d first encountered the man. It hadn’t occurred to him at the time to wonder which Templar had done it; it hadn’t mattered then. And, Hawke supposes, it doesn’t really matter to him now, since it’s not like Karl’s muting has any relevance or bearing on what he’s doing. The question nags at him as he climbs the stairs up to Karl’s apartment though, and he works his jaw back and forth for a moment as he stands on the stoop before knocking.

Karl doesn’t come to the door. Hawke waits for minute or two, leaning against the door jamb, ear cocked toward the apartment, listening for any indication of life within. He tamps down on the first thought that claws its way to the front of his mind, that Karl is once again injured within and unable to come to the door. There’s no recent reason he can think of for reprisal against the doctor, unless the Commander is lashing out at anyone she can reach who’s helped Hawke before. At least he knows Margitte and Cullen can handle themselves, if that’s truly the case, but he’d rather not jump to conclusions.

He tries the door and finds it locked, a marked departure from the first time he was here. That allays most of his fear, and he shoves his hands in his pockets, running his thumb over the crest he now keeps there, and wanders toward Darktown. He’s not about to bust down a locked door without a good damn reason, and though he’s not keen on this new course he’s plotting, it is his next best option. He stops for lunch on the way, sitting in the corner and watching both doors and the streets outside the windows. The lack of a tail, or one he can see, worries him, though perhaps it just means that they’ve finally decided they can trust him. Hawke snorts into his food. As amusing as unlikely.

An hour later, he steps through the doors of Anders’s clinic. He waves to the woman behind the front desk, Lirene, was it?, who immediately presses her panic button and backs away from the desk. Hawke just raises his eyebrows and sits down in one of the waiting room chairs, crossing his arms and legs and leaning back. He’s expecting Alistair to come bursting out from the back, as he’d done the last time Hawke was here, and it’s disappointing then concerning when instead Anders appears, holding his right arm stiffly at his side. Too stiffly and without any visible sign of an injury...

Hawke sets both his feet on the floor, avoiding any sudden movements, and spreads his hands to his sides. “Don’t shoot,” he says, sitting up straight. “It’s just me.”

“What do you want,  _ Templar? _ ” Anders spits, raising his arm to point the pistol he holds squarely at Hawke. It’s a small firearm, serviceable and concealable yet powerful enough to cripple, which Hawke imagines is the point of it. A weapon like that would be easy to attain through legitimate resellers, and no one would bat an eye if Anders used it in defense of his clinic. Darktown is a dangerous place, full of all sorts of unsavory characters...like Hawke. “You’re not welcome here.”

“Where’s Alistair?”

“Not here. What. Do. You. Want?”

Hawke blinks, looks over to the front desk where Lirene has backed up enough to reach the door set in the wall behind and to her left. She disappears through it as he watches, leaving him alone with Anders. Probably spectating now from the safety of a locked room with the video camera monitors, not that he blames her. Hawke takes a deep breath and releases it before responding, examining Anders as closely as he can from a plastic chair fifteen feet away. The good doctor looks a little harried but that’s nothing truly out of the ordinary, though the gun is. His scrubs are still tattered and too short and he grabbed two different socks this morning, but Hawke can’t see anything on him that raises any flags.

“Where’s Karl?”

The gun wavers in Anders’s hand before he grips it tighter and shoves it toward Hawke. “You stay away from him. You’ve done enough.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Maybe not personally, but your precious Templars have.”

“I didn’t realize the sins of the entire Order were on my head. Seems fair, I’m sure they did nothing wrong before I joined.”

Anders licks his lips but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t lower the gun either. Hawke blows out a breath and watches Anders for anything that might indicate which way he’s leaning on the “shoot or not shoot” front. “Not shoot” seems more likely, just from what Hawke knows of the man, but if Anders believes he’s protecting Karl, then all bets are off. Either way, it’s an odd feeling, getting threatened by a doctor with a gun, and he’s not keen to repeat the experience any time soon. The current experience could end at any time, as far as he’s concerned. 

“Look, I don’t know what you think I’ve done. Or what the Templars have done. Put that thing down and we can...talk about it.” Hawke shrugs at the skeptical look Anders gives him. “I’d rather talk than get shot. That’s not high on my to do list today.”

Anders narrows his eyes. “How do I know you won’t attack me if I put it down?”

“Because,” Hawke says, one side of his mouth curling up, “I’ve rushed people with guns before. If I really wanted to take you out, I could have already done it.”

“You know that’s not very comforting.”

Hawke shrugs and lowers his arms, crossing them again over his chest. “It’s up to you. But I’m waiting here until we talk or Alistair comes back.”

Silence descends on the waiting room as Anders thinks it over. Hawke keeps his eyes mostly on the hallway behind Anders, looking for any sign of movement to betray the presence of another person. He’d been hoping that perhaps Karl had come to see Anders and that was why he wasn’t at home, but unless he’s staying real quiet in one of the back rooms, then Hawke is back to square one. Well, two, technically. While it would be easier to work with Karl, it’s also possible that Anders might stoop to assist him. Might. Anders is a highly unknown quantity, and the few interactions Hawke has had with him didn’t necessarily paint him in the best light. It’s also remarkably possible that Anders will simply refuse him on the grounds of Hawke being an irredeemable asshole.

Hawke exhales slowly, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his thighs, pointing his gaze at the floor in front of him. Anders doesn’t shoot, though Hawke does hear the gun being shifted around again, and he takes that as a good sign at least. The fewer bullets, the better.

“I trust you’ll believe me when I say that I wouldn’t be here if I felt I had any other choice.”

Anders snorts. “Sounds reasonable. So why the fuck  _ are _ you here?”

Hawke chews on his lip for a minute before speaking. It’s not that he has no reason to trust Anders, the doctor has been helpful on more than a few occasions to both him and Fenris, for which Hawke feels some sort of strange debt, but he’s not thrilled at the idea of admitting weakness to the man. He still has options, though, now before he says anything: he could get up and go back to the safehouse, try to find Karl another time; he could refuse to talk until Anders brings Karl; or he could just bite the metaphorical bullet and get it over with. The worst Anders can say is no, and then Hawke is just back to option one.

“I want to get out. But I need help.”

“Say please.”

“What?” Hawke’s head snaps up and he glares at Anders, who, on the other side of the waiting room, looks entirely too delighted by the situation now. 

“Say, ‘Please, Anders, I need your help.’” Against Hawke’s continued glaring, he gestures flippantly with the gun and continues, “You’ve threatened me, slammed my head into a chair, terrorized my staff, and generally made a nuisance of yourself. You’ll be polite or you’ll leave.”

The urge to charge Anders and knock him into the wall, to just take him out and get what he wants that way, is nearly overwhelming, and Hawke clenches his hands as he sits in his chair, every fiber in his body straining against every scrap of his willpower, and tries to remember to breathe. He understands that Anders perhaps has a point with what he said, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it and he doesn’t. With a final exhale, he stands, taking his time to roll his back and shoulders. He can’t look down at Anders from his full height, but he can at least put them on a level for this. 

“Please,” he says, the word stretching his mouth in weird ways. Anders rolls his left hand for Hawke to keep going, and Hawke rolls his eyes, breathing in then out. “I need your help.”

Inexplicably, Anders grins. “Well, you forgot my name, but we’ll let that slide today.” He shoves the gun into the back of his scrubs and claps his hands together. “What do you need help with?”

When Hawke doesn’t answer immediately, Anders’s grin widens and he gestures down the hallway. “We could have our consultation in the waiting room, but I think you’d prefer somewhere more private?” And without so much as a by your leave, Anders turns and strides down the hall, opening the door to one of the rooms and disappearing. After a few beats, once he’s collected his jaw from the floor, Hawke follows.

He’s pretty sure he’s been in this particular room before, but he can’t recall which instance of injury it was that brought him here. All of the rooms more or less look the same, though, and it’s not like it truly matters one way or another. He’ll ask his questions, hopefully get what he’s aiming for, and leave, and try his damndest to not end up here again.

Anders is waiting in the center of the room, arms crossed, gun casually placed on the counter behind him, and nods at the exam table when Hawke enters. Hawke looks from it to Anders, who nods at it again, and instead leans against the side of the table, mirroring Anders’s posture. He waits for the doctor to speak first, to ask again, because it’s hard enough to be here, much less actually spit out what he needs.

“How’s your head? Karl mentioned you got concussed, which shocked me: I would have put money on your head being too hard to injure.”

“It’s fine.”

“Do you mind?” Anders gestures toward Hawke’s head. “Not that I don’t trust the Templar medical staff; I just don’t trust Templars.”

Hawke sighs and shrugs, submitting to Anders’s probes and tests and questions, a similar rigamarole to what he’d experienced at the Templar hospital. It’s annoying but not incredibly invasive, and if this is what Anders needs in order to be more amenable to helping him, well, he’ll bear it. For a few minutes anyway, and then Hawke growls and bats away Anders’s hands.

“Enough. Are you satisfied?”

“Hardly, but I suppose I’ll have to settle. You seem fine enough; I’ll have to tell Karl he needn’t have worried. Your head really is remarkably durable.” Anders backs up to sit on the little wheeled stool in the room and scoots to and fro a few inches.

“...Right.” Hawke scuffs the toe of one shoe on the floor, gazing past Anders to the wall. The chair’s movement stops, and Hawke can see Anders lean forward, suddenly serious.

“You want to get out, you said.”

“Yes.”

“OK. What do you need?”

Hawke blinks. “That’s it?”

“Well, yes. Leaving aside the fact that it’s probably not good for your health to yo-yo the Templars like that; and also the fact that Alistair only got out by joining the Wardens, which was another colossal mistake; and that the Templars here in Kirkwall are particularly ruthless, if you’re trying to leave, then I am inclined to help you.”

Anders sits up straighter on the stool, his head tilting to the right. He looks completely earnest, as far as Hawke can tell, and that unnerves him for reasons he can’t quite place. It doesn’t fit with the last two times he was here for information, where he had to threaten for what he wanted and Anders only cooperated begrudgingly. To see him serious and immediately ready to help just makes Hawke nervous. No one just turns around like that without a reason.

“Why?”

“I have my own Templar sob story,” Anders says breezily, waving a hand. “Like everyone in Darktown, and the Gallows especially. I won’t bore you with it. Suffice to say, any way I can stick it to the Templars is at least worth considering.”

Hawke mulls this over for a bit and nods. Spite is as good a motivation as any to him at this point.

“Lyrium—”

“Absolutely not, I won’t help you get it.”

“I want to get  _ off _ it,” he growls, pulling his arms in just a little tighter around his body. “I need to know if there’s something, anything, that can cancel it out.”

“I thought you said—”

“I can’t get out if I’m leashed,” Hawke snaps. “There are some things I need to ensure before I can leave; I just… I can’t be craving it any more. I can’t.”

By the time he finishes speaking, his voice has trailed off into a whisper. Anders sits on his stool, pensive, eyes darting back and forth like he’s reading information from a screen. Hawke watches him for a few minutes before giving up and staring at the wall. If Anders comes up with something, he’ll let him know. Until then, there's nothing Hawke can do. He tries to focus on his breathing, for lack of anything else, and ends up pulling his phone out instead.

H:  **_I'm visiting your favorite person_ **

F:  **_How curious. I also am visiting your sister, but I do not see you._ **

H:  **_tell her hi for me if you think it’s wise_ **

H:  **_wait, Bethany’s your favorite, not me??_ **

F:  **_Proximity does wonders._ **

F:  **_What are you seeing him for? Are you injured again so soon?_ **

H:  **_no, but thanks for the vote of confidence_ **

H:  **_thought I’d see if there’s anything he can do about the lyrium_ **

F:  **_Hmm...and is there?_ **

H:  **_don’t know yet. He was thinking and now he’s looking something up on the computer. I’m not sure if that’s reassuring or not_ **

F:  **_I think that’s good. If he had nothing to help, he’d tell you quickly. I believe this means he thinks he has something and needs to double check._ **

H:  **_he could say that…_ **

F:  **_Patience, Hawke._ **

H:  **_easy for you to say_ **

F:  **_I know. I am sorry._ **

F:  **_Though I cannot be there personally, I am with you in spirit. As is Bethany. She sends her love._ **

F:  **_As does your dog, if I am to interpret that lick correctly._ **

H:  **_thank you_ **

H:  **_I miss you_ **

F:  **_I miss you too, Hawke. Return to us safely._ **

H:  **_that’s the plan_ **

~~ H:  **_I love you_ ** ~~ [text not sent]

Hawke looks up from his phone to see Anders watching him, a curious yet clinically detached look on his face. Hawke scowls and shoves his phone back into a pocket. He rests his hands behind him on the exam table, staring back at the doctor until Anders shakes his head.

“Short answer is that I believe I can help you.”

“And the long answer?”

“Is that I believe I can help you but it’s complicated and will take some time.”

Hawke raises an eyebrow and waits for Anders to continue. He’s got time, no plans until later in the evening because “under cover of darkness” is still a time-honored striking hour, and anyway, he has no desire to leave until he has as much information as he possibly can. He doesn’t want to have to come back if he can help it.

“I’ll need to talk to Karl about what he knows of the dosage you’re getting. That’s the first step. We can’t proceed farther without that information or we risk making everything worse.” Anders takes a deep breath through his nose. “There isn’t a widely spread cure or antidote to lyrium; I imagine the Templars do what they can to stifle any attempts made that direction. But lucky for you, I happen to be quite good at what I do, and with Karl’s assistance I think we can come up with a cocktail that will do the trick.

“Now, as if things weren’t already a bit clusterfucky already, I don’t have some of the medications I think I’d like to use on hand; they’re just not the standard clinic fare. So it will be a few days, maybe a week or two, before I can get my hands on everything. I have to order them from the manufacturer, and while they won’t ask questions because they love getting business, I’m not a regular client of theirs, so my order will likely get shunted to the back of the list. That gives us time to work out the ratios, though, as best we can. I’m not wild about using you as the first test subject—”

“I don’t care about that.”

Anders waves a hand. “Yes, yes, we all know you have a reckless disregard for your own life, but please consider literally anyone else who might care about what happens to you. Fenris, for instance, though I can’t imagine what he sees in you.

_ “In any case, _ ” he continues, before Hawke can speak again, “there is little we can do about conducting a proper medical trial so this will have to do. Maker preserve us.” Anders scrubs a hand down his face, looking more tired than Hawke has ever seen him. Worried, too, which twists something in Hawke’s gut, and he wonders if this was such a smart idea after all. There doesn’t feel like much of a choice, however, if the choice is between addiction to a Templar-controlled substance and something that could help give him his life back.

“You do need to be aware, Hawke, about what I’m trying to accomplish here and what the potential side effects might be. Everything right now is theoretical, so this is just my best guess with the information I have now.” Anders pushes off the stool and begins pacing the small room, talking with his hands as he explains.

“As I said, there isn’t an antidote, per se, but I believe I can simulate one by combining a few different medications. What this will do is temporarily block the lyrium from binding to your system. You’ll have to take it an hour or so before you eat so it has time to work. The upside is, if your system isn’t getting all the lyrium, it can’t create an addiction to it. The downside is, you’ll probably experience withdrawal symptoms even while taking the drug. We’ll do what we can to reduce those symptoms with other medications, but this is what’s going to be complicated: getting the dosage right to combat the lyrium while not fully removing it from your system. If we give you too much of the antidote, it could severely exacerbate the withdrawal symptoms, potentially crashing your system and requiring immediate hospitalization. It could kill you. On the other hand, if we give you too low a dose of the antidote, the lyrium will still bind and we’ll still be where we started except that your body will be swimming with all sorts of drugs that could cause their own side effects if they’re not working in concert like they’re supposed to. And since I’m not sure exactly how the Templars prepare their lyrium, it is also possible that the drugs I believe are safe for consumption with it will interact poorly and accelerate the effects of the lyrium, which could also be lethal if not caught in time.

“Karl’s advice will be key here, but I doubt even he knows everything about what they’re doing to you. Fucking Templars…”

Anders stops pacing in front of Hawke and lifts his arms before dropping them back to his sides, seeming to resist the urge to grab Hawke’s shoulders, but only just.

“This isn’t a long term solution, either. Assuming it even works at all, this is a temporary stopgap measure to get you out. You won’t have long, maybe a few months, before your system compensates. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.”

After all, what else is there to say? He’d rather take the risk than do nothing at all. At least he’ll be doing something about it rather than sitting around, bemoaning that this is happening to him and wishing things could be different.

Anders nods and turns to pull gloves out of the box on the counter behind him, pushing the gun a bit farther away. He looks just a bit too gleeful as he snaps the gloves on. “Alright. That means I need a full medical workup so we have a starting point to work from. Sit.”

Hawke leaves thirty minutes later, irritated but with the promise that Karl will be in touch in a few days once he and Anders have come up with something. He’s still got more than a few hours until he’s needed at the safehouse for the pre-mission briefing, so he spends some time wandering aimlessly through Darktown, surprising himself when he realizes he’s climbed the stairs nearest his house. Curiosity spurs him on, and he loops around his neighborhood before letting himself in the back door. His house is dark, shades drawn against the daylight, and he doesn’t bother to open any of them, just pulls out a chair at the table and sits. He texts Fenris,  **_I’m home_ ** ,  though he has no idea if he’ll meet him here, or even if he’ll understand which home he’s talking about. But less than an hour later his front door unlocks and Fenris steps through, his face drawn and ashy but still smiling, just a bit.

He joins Hawke at the table, reaching out to cover Hawke’s hands with his own, and they sit together in the quiet and the dark until Hawke starts talking, telling Fenris everything Anders told him. It starts to sink in then, sitting in his kitchen with Fenris, in a way it hadn’t at the clinic, and he feels as though he might shatter apart were it not for Fenris holding him together. It all feels so large, enormous on a scale that he, as a single person, should not have to face, and yet here he is. He can only thank the Maker for this one kindness, that he is not totally alone in this anymore, and grip Fenris’s hands tighter to cover the shaking in his own.

“We may have our personal differences,” Fenris says, giving Hawke something to concentrate on, “but Anders is a competent physician. And with his partner’s knowledge of the Templars, it is perhaps not so inconceivable that it could work.”

“Fenris, am I...am I a fool for even considering this? The risks… There’s such a small chance for true success.”

“The risks have never seemed to bother you much before.” Fenris’s tone is light, an attempt at humor that falls so incredibly flat in its truth, and they both wince.

“The risks were always acceptable before. I do not fear death, but I don’t intentionally court it, either, despite what it must look like. This is just… It’s nothing that I can affect, there is nothing that I can do to improve the odds here. I have to rely on someone else and hope that my cause of death won’t end up being ‘mistake of science.’”

Fenris nods, his eyes fixed on their joined hands when he says, “It frightens me too.”

There isn’t much left to say after that, and when Hawke gets up to pace the house, too keyed up to sit still any longer, Fenris lets him do so for a minute, then grabs his hand again and pulls him upstairs. Hawke’s bed hasn’t seen use in over half a year, not since the night Fenris left, and he balks a little at the sight of it. Fenris kisses him, gently guiding him forward until they fall onto the bed. He rolls Hawke underneath him, coaxing him farther up so his legs aren’t dangling off the side, kissing him all the while. Hawke submits, relaxes by degrees into the idea that he doesn’t have to think right now, that Fenris will take care of him, and lies boneless on the bed until Fenris hits that sweet spot inside him again and again, and he arches, keening, into Fenris who holds him close and rides him through the aftershocks. 

Afterward, Hawke wraps his arms around Fenris, pulling him closer still and pressing kiss after kiss into his collarbone. He can tell by the shifting tone of the light through the blinds that he’ll have to leave soon, but for now, for as long as he can, he’ll hide here with Fenris and pretend the events since January haven’t happened and they’re happy and content and safe. But eventually he can’t ignore it any longer, and he rolls out of the bed and tugs Fenris with him toward the shower. He stalls again once they’re there, though, sinking to his knees beneath the water and gripping Fenris’s hip with one hand and twining the fingers of his other hand with Fenris’s. The soft sound Fenris makes as he comes is nearly drowned out by the water, but Hawke can hear it echoing in his mind the whole way back to the safehouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the new overwatch event is happening starting today and holy shit it's so much fun???? so please enjoy this chapter cuz i probably won't be able to produce anything for the next three weeks
> 
> In other notes, I did my best to research, based on the type of drug I've classified lyrium as for this fic, how an antagonist would actually make real world sense. Thanks to Google and some help from friends, I have this chapter. As with any piece of fiction, though, there will be some liberties taken, but all this will function about as realistically as I can make it (while still keeping High Drama, obvi).
> 
> As always, my love to you who are here. Thank you for everything <3


	42. Chapter Forty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke makes some new friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music rec: ["We Fight"](https://youtu.be/cntsqw7XOF0) by Dashboard Confessional
> 
> also of note: this chapter veers sharply into the "I took canon out back and shot it" territory, the "it's more like guidelines than actual rules" place. Just fyi

And then a week or two later, it all goes about five degrees east of true north. There’s nothing  _ wrong, _ nothing Hawke can point to for certain, but a new kind of deep-seated anxiety takes up residence in his psyche after the Koslun mission and the appearance of the Red Army. He knows that this is trouble, but he has no evidence, nothing to take to Cullen and give credence to his misgivings. Of course, it could also all be a weird-ass side effect of everything he’s got running around his gut now, but he’s pretty sure it isn’t. Conspiracy theories weren’t on the list of things to potentially expect when he met with Karl a few days ago.

Things that were ran the gamut from difficulty breathing, headaches, blurred vision, and vomiting to seizures, extreme light sensitivity, hallucinations, coma, and death. The usual. Karl had reassured him that he wouldn’t likely experience many or any of the side effects, that he and Anders had done a lot of work to choose medications that would play nicely with others while still being effective at their respective jobs. But it was their duty, he said, to inform Hawke of everything they knew so that he could make the best decisions for himself since it was possible, though unlikely, that Hawke may have a contraindication they weren’t previously aware of, despite their best attempts. Now the bottles, carefully unlabeled, sit under his bed with the rest of his gear. He’s had a couple days to begin taking the doses, four pills three times a day, and he nearly stopped after the second time, when his throat constricted around one of the capsules and he had to gag it back up and try again.

This, more than anything else, Hawke feels is one of his worst ideas. With how much he hates taking the pills combined with the fact that he still has not been contacted, even though Aveline insists she’s followed up twice, he’s starting to feel more trapped than ever, caught between things he can’t control and now with nowhere else to turn.

He texts Fenris perhaps more than is wise, considering the Templars are in the middle of rallying the troops to drive the Qunari from the holdings they’ve dug into and he has no more time to himself to take unsanctioned trips out of Darktown and the Gallows to visit, but it helps him get his mind off the pills when he takes them and hearing about Fenris’s comparatively boring days reassures him that it’s just his small world down here that’s flipped out. Each text gets deleted after he responds, and he’s performed more than one factory reset on the device since he’s been here, just in case. It is displeasing, to say the least, that he has to do this: delete the present he’s building with Fenris so they have a better chance at a future together.

“They’re giving us a divorce,” Margitte says as they spar, a day before the Koslun mission. Hawke nearly doesn’t get his arm up in time to block her leg as she sweeps it at him and he dances back a step, resettling his guard.

“The fuck are you talking about?” This time he’s ready for her, tapping aside both her fists as they come at his face and kicking out so she has to break off. She takes a few steps back, and they circle around the ring.

“Tomorrow’s mission. They’re splitting us up.” Margitte gives him a second to consider that before flying at him, jumping at the last second to drive an elbow down against his face. She wraps her legs around his torso and twists while he’s occupied with the elbow and flips him onto his back on the mat.

Hawke grunts and swings his own leg around to bar against her chest. “Where’d you hear that? Thought assignments weren’t out yet.” He surges, swapping their positions on the mat, and pins her hands in his. She bares her teeth at him and headbutts him, or would have if he didn’t release her hands and jerk back. He rolls off her and back to his feet, waiting for her to get up too.

“I have my ways,” she sing-songs and stares at him until he gives her a suspicious look but offers his hand nonetheless. Of course it was a trap, and she pulls him off balance and back to the mat, but she doesn’t capitalize on it, just lays there laughing until Hawke snorts and flails out with an arm to whack her in the side.

“Fine, I overheard Don on the phone with the Captain, discussing squads. It was quite the discussion; I didn’t realize we were such the hot commodity.”

The basement gym around them is relatively quiet, most people not too keen to push themselves hard before something like this. The vast majority of their house has been mobilized for it, but no one knows what’s going on yet. That information will be released tomorrow, though there are already a few people Hawke knows of who must have been given advance orders because they haven’t been around the last day and a half. Scouts and the like, people designed to blend in with their surroundings more than Hawke, who’s had the one surveillance mission in his life, and though he thought he did pretty good, all things considered, he knows the Templars have specialists they usually use for this sort of thing.

“We’re the dream team,” Hawke says, sitting up. It bothers him more than he’s comfortable with, the idea that they might not have Margitte on the same squad as him tomorrow. It’s been an unspoken fact of the last few months that, no matter what else, they go together. Of the Templars he knows, he trusts Cullen implicitly and Margitte heavily, despite her loyalties. He feels a lot better knowing that someone who likes him has his back on these excursions and desperately hopes that if he can’t have Margitte, that they’ll take pity on him and let him run with the Captain.

“You mean we’re the only ones who know what we’re doing.”

And there it is. “That must be why. Gotta have someone smart on the squads.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Margitte laughs, rolling her head to the side to look up at him. “I’m the brains of the operation; you just hit things real hard.”

Hawke shrugs. “Admit it: you’ll miss me tomorrow when I’m not there.”

“Yeah, miss getting stuck behind you and not being able to see anything? I don’t think so. I’ll be enjoying my nice unobstructed view. It’s gonna be glorious.”

“You’ll miss me when you can’t use me as a shield.”

“I’m small. I can use anyone as a shield.”

Hawke helps Margitte to her feet for real and they head for the showers. “Sure, and after you do, everyone’ll be clamoring for you to not be on their team anymore. Face it, M; I’m the only one who can stand you. How’d you manage without me?” She punches him.

“Just fine, thanks. And I can do it again, you keep running your mouth like that.” She gives him a significant look, one that would strike mortal terror into another man but just makes Hawke grin and reach out to shove her.

Donnic makes the rounds of the safehouse early in the morning to distribute assignments and meeting places. Turns out Hawke’s group is briefing in a different location so the two groups in the operation can be separated before everything begins. Hawke isn’t quite sure what that’s supposed to accomplish, other than making it hard for the two groups to coordinate, but if the people in charge say they don’t need to, then who is he to say otherwise. Don’s raised eyebrow says he can tell what’s in Hawke’s head that he’s not saying, but neither of them speak as Hawke turns to his bunk to start gathering what he needs. They aren’t moving until around midday, but Hawke has nothing better to do with his time before then and figures he’ll get set up in advance. 

The meeting place is another safehouse, though one more rarely used, and Hawke seems to be the first one there. Hard to tell. It’s a short building, just two stories and made of the same gray brick that seems to make up most of Darktown and the Gallows, set back from the road a ways, hidden behind a chain link fence with barbed wire coiled atop it. The place looks abandoned. Hawke shimmies through the crack in the gate after checking that no one else is around, and jogs up to the building to try the front door. Locked. He glances back at the street, still sees no one, and makes his way around to the back of the building, looking for another entrance.

The back door is unlocked, and he opens it wide, staying on the stoop as he peers inside. The first floor looks to be just one giant, empty room, any furniture that had been set out at one point pushed to the walls and covered in sheets. Hawke snorts, amused at the horror movie scene laid out before him despite the knowledge that he’s like as not to die first if it turns out that’s where he is. Everything looks rather undisturbed, but he draws his bowie knife anyway, holding it in a loose grip as he steps through the doorway. He clears the entire house, first floor, second, and basement, before he’s satisfied that he really is the only person there so far and settles in to wait.

He’s never met the first Templar that steps through the back door, a solid individual with their dark hair pulled back into a functional ponytail, and if it weren’t for T coming through right behind them, he might have tried to take them out. As it is, T meets his eyes as he stands up from the spot he’d taken on the stairs, and raises a hand to halt Hawke in his tracks. Hawke narrows his eyes at T and the new Templar, who glares back, rolling their shoulders and casually shifting their footing to a defensive stance. They’re not looking intimidated in the least, and Hawke can respect that, if nothing else. He nods, and they nod back, and that’s the end of it.

Over the next few hours, more Templars arrive at the house, always through the back door. Does no one have a key to the front door? Is that on purpose? Hawke adds it to the list of things he doesn’t care about enough to ask and contents himself with watching who shows up. With the looks directed his way and whispers that follow, he assumes his reputation precedes him, though with the exception of T, he doesn’t know a single person of the dozen or so in the room. At least until Donnic shows up, right at the time the briefing is scheduled to begin. T nods at him and begins to round everyone’s attention to himself at the front of the house, while Donnic locks the back door from the inside and leans against it. His eyes pass over Hawke, but he doesn’t react, focusing on T after sweeping around the rest of the room.

Hawke stays seated on the stairs. He can see and hear just fine from here, and he’s not anxious to put himself in a crowd of Templars if he can help it. Some of the Templars are perched on the covered furniture around the room, but most have gathered in a large clump near the locked front door where T stands. Hawke can see the Templar from earlier at the back of the group, a good five feet away from the other nearest Templar, their arms crossed, weight dropped back on one foot. They look bored, almost insolent, but T doesn’t snap his fingers to get their attention or call them out like he’s done to Templars back at the other safehouse during briefings. Hawke frowns. They’re paying attention, though; Hawke can see the minute twitches and tips in their face as T speaks. At least they’re all on a level playing field when it comes to the information given, he supposes.

“The time has come,” T says, pacing at the head of the group of Templars, “to strike a decisive blow against the Qunari.” A few shouts of agreement from those assembled, and Hawke rolls his eyes. “We’ve received intelligence that one of their most important leaders is coming into the city tonight. Hidden under the codename ‘Koslun,’ he oversees their entire operation. If we take him out, the Qunari presence in Kirkwall will crumble into dust to be swept away by Templar boots.”

A bit overkill on the poetic symbolism, Hawke thinks, but it’s working, if the restless stomping and muttering of the Templars is any indication. It does speak to the discipline among the Templar ranks, though, that such outbursts are short-lived and T is able to continue with his speech quickly.

“They thought they could sneak him past us. They were wrong. Tonight, we cut the head off the snake and cripple their leadership. While your fellows raid the house Koslun is to be brought to, we will strike at the Docks as Koslun transfers from ship to car, the moment he will be most vulnerable.”

Hawke looks back at Donnic as T starts to lay out the actual details of the plan, rather than stirring up the passions of the masses. Donnic’s lips are pressed tight together, further paling the already shocking pallor of his face. This undercover business isn’t doing his health any favors, and Hawke wonders exactly how much longer Donnic will be expected to stay here before the brass finally pulls him out. The prolonged assignment hasn’t been easy on Aveline either, Hawke knows, and he makes a note in the longshot area of his head, next to the one that says “buy booze for New Year’s,” that reads “make Ave and Don go on vacation.” Maker only knows when the last time either of them had a day off was.

Donnic gives him a tired, strained smile when he catches Hawke watching, then pointedly turns his gaze back to T. Not like he hasn’t heard this before, Hawke is positive that Donnic, at least, has to already know the plan, but it’s a reminder both to pay attention so he doesn’t fuck up the mission and also to limit their contact. Given Hawke’s reputation among the higher ups, it’s better that Donnic not be seen as too close to him. Any suspicions about Hawke should stay with Hawke, not be cast on Donnic by association.

So instead Hawke watches the lone Templar shift on their feet and scratch their neck, pop their knuckles and yawn a little. They meet his eyes with pale blue ones and hold for a minute before dismissing him with a yawn and flick of their eyes to the ceiling. At one point they pull a small knife from their pocket and proceed to trim and clean their nails. They don’t look to be heavily armed, unlike some of the Templars there who’ve shown up in tac pants with assault knives strapped everywhere, but they have at least the one blade and Hawke would bet on at least one other hidden somewhere else. They’re solid though, built like a bulldozer. Hawke can’t wait to see a Qunari get flattened by those fists.

T finishes his spiel and moves through the crowd, separating them into two smaller groups of five or six. He beckons Hawke over, pointing to the floor near the Templar at the back. Hawke lifts his chin in greeting to the unknown Templar as T makes the introductions.

“Hawke, this is Ranger. Ranger, Hawke. You two’ll be with me for this.”

“And do what, exactly?” Ranger asks, their voice soft and low, gruff from overuse somehow.

“Why?” Hawke asks, folding his arms over his chest. 

T sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a minute to breathe before responding. Hawke arches an eyebrow at Ranger, curious if they think this is as amusing as he does, but he gets no response from them. 

“Because someone needs to go for Koslun and you two are among the most ruthless we have.” Hawke snorts softly as T continues. “The rest will clear the way for us and distract Koslun’s contingent of guards.”

The three of them are silent for a beat before Ranger says, “Dead or alive?” Easy as you please, as though either option is equally weighted in their eyes, like they see nothing unconscionable in that question. Hawke grinds his teeth and says nothing.

“Quite dead, Ranger. We hardly want to give the Qunari something worth fighting for. Though the potential for intelligence is great were he to be captured alive, it has been deemed an acceptable loss by the Commander.”

Hawke pulses his fist against his side, focusing on the movement of the tendons. He knows all about the Commander’s idea of acceptable losses, her shockingly cavalier way of moving her Templars as though they were merely chess pieces rather than full-blooded human beings. He wonders if T knows. More than that, he wonders if T would care if he knew. It’s possible he would, given how he interacted with Karl when they first met, but people who do what they do and see their doctor more frequently for injuries do tend to treat them better as the stakes are higher. With the exception, he supposes, of himself and Pax, but that little asshole deserves Hawke’s ire for doing what he did.

“Understood.”

“Hawke?”

“Whatever you say.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

They approach the docks from three directions. Donnic’s with the group coming from the west, Hawke’s not sure who’s leading the eastern group, and his own small coterie heads straight down south. With just the three of them, they move swiftly and quietly, jogging down the streets in a V formation, T on point, Hawke to his left. That they see no Qunari on their way fills Hawke with a cold dread. He hadn’t expected to see a lot of them, but a scout or two, perhaps? Maybe a small group wandering around. The Docks is mostly their territory after all: it doesn’t make sense for them to have such a limited presence here. Hawke glances over at Ranger, who meets his eyes and shrugs: they noticed it too. Ranger taps T on the shoulder and flashes a few hand signals at him. T nods but doesn’t slow his pace or otherwise react, and Hawke has to grit his teeth, swallow his frustration, and follow.

He keeps on the lookout as best he can, and beside him he can see Ranger doing the same. Their timing on this raid has been planned down to the minute, and as they get closer to the actual docks part of the Docks, T checks his watch more frequently, changing their pace to match whatever he’s seeing. There’s still no Qunari Hawke can see down the side streets and alleys they pass, and only the rare common citizen rushes by on some errand or other.

At what Hawke assumes is the agreed upon time, he can see the other two groups swarm into the large, open dock area at the end of the row on either side of his trio, fists and knives at the ready, on guard and dangerous. He pulls up short, the view in front of him at odds with the information he’d been given, and his brain churns furiously as it works through these new facts.

Fact one: there is no ship moored at the docks.

Fact two: there is no car waiting to take Koslun from ship to house.

Fact three: there are still no Qunari anywhere.

Fact four: there are several warehouses built rather close to this dock.

Conclusion one: Koslun is either not coming yet or already come and gone.

Conclusion two: this is a fucking trap.

Hawke whirls, trying to keep each warehouse in his sights, but it’s an impossible task without eyes on the sides of his head. He taps Ranger’s shoulder and points at half of the buildings, then at himself and to the other half. They nod, and Hawke stands back to back with them, eyes darting between the few doors and windows that he can see. From his side, he can hear T speaking into the walkie talkie that up until now he hasn’t touched.

“Captain, there’s no one here.... It’s an empty dock, ser.... I don’t like the look of it; I’m going to order the men to retreat.... Captain? Captain! Dammit, ser, what’s going on!?”

Against his better judgment, Hawke risks a look at T, who stands farther onto the dock, staring at the device in his hand like it’ll give him answers if he only concentrates hard enough. As Hawke watches, T shakes his head and pulls himself together, flashing a few hand signals at the leaders of the other two groups, who are watching and waiting while their men glance around and whisper amongst themselves. This is bad. Bad enough their intelligence was dead wrong, worse yet that rumors and nerves are starting to spread among the Templars assembled.

The groups start to converge on T’s location, and that’s when it happens:

A couple crates on either side of the dock explode, sending wooden shrapnel flying in all directions. It’s not deadly, but the Templars closest to the blast radius take a back or side full of the stuff and fall over, screaming in pain, eliminated from the fight. Several others catch a few splinters here or there, not enough to drop them but enough to make movements uncomfortable. At the same moment, the doors of the warehouses crash open and Qunari pour out, dozens and dozens of Qunari. More than Hawke has ever seen in one place before, more than he honestly expected to ever see in his life. The warehouses must have been packed to the rafters with waiting Qunari because they’re still coming. 

Behind him he can hear Ranger snarl and pull knives, and he does the same, drawing the bowie out in a reverse grip, holding it crossbody at his opposite shoulder. 

“Good hunting,” Ranger calls, bumping backward with an elbow at Hawke.

“Fall back to the house!” T yells, and takes a single step that direction.

And then they’re overwhelmed. 

The fight, if one could even call it that, is over embarrassingly quickly for the Templars. Hawke lashes out with his knife at the closest Qunari, who falls to the blade due to the sheer press of people behind him, unable to dodge. The next three are dispatched similarly, but then the mass of Qunari is all around him, and even with Ranger guarding his back, they’re both surrounded, disarmed, and brought to their knees. Hawke struggles against the Qunari holding his arms behind his back and receives a blow to the head from the handle of his own knife. It doesn’t knock him out, but he sways, dazed, and only the Qunari at his back keeps him upright with a painful wrench on his arms.

He giggles a bit at the thought of what Anders might say if he knew Hawke had been hit on the head again, and just manages to duck a second knife strike to the head, though he gets a cuff anyway for his trouble. The Qunari shifts his grip on the bowie, leveling the blade at him rather than the handle, and Hawke stills at the threat. He may be an idiot, but he’s not stupid enough to ignore that warning. Staying alive is the plan now, after all, and he’d really hate to go out like that, summarily executed after a fight lasting all of thirty seconds.

The rest of the Templars, those he can see anyway, are on the ground like him, hands behind their backs or on their heads. He can hear occasional noises of displeasure from Ranger as a Qunari divests them of all their weaponry. The only other sounds are the moans of the shrapnel-injured Templars, the occasional slap of a Qunari hitting a Templar to shut them up, and the soft crash of the waves below the dock. 

Long minutes go by without anyone talking. Any Templar who tries to speak up is struck into silence. T and Donnic are pulled to their feet and dropped again to their knees ten feet in front of the rest of them, and the Templars are shoved, if they can move themselves, or dragged, if they can’t, by the Qunari into a staggered, two-line formation so that each of them has a view of the two men in front. One of the younger looking Templars struggles when it’s his turn to be moved, trying to surge up at the Qunari and break her hold. He manages to get an arm free and start swinging, clocking his captor once, but that only serves to make her tighten her hold on the arm she does have. He flails out at the rest of the Qunari nearby, kicking and screaming. The Qunari locked onto his arm finally lets go, and when he turns around to face her, fists raised to fight, she stabs him in the stomach and drops him off the edge of the dock.

And then they wait again. In ones and twos, the Qunari disappear until there are only three to every Templar. Hawke’s not sure where the rest have gone, if they’re back in the warehouses or otherwise out of sight or if they’ve left the area entirely. And still the Qunari wait, asking no questions and placing no demands. They make random attacks, walking between the two rows of Templars facing T and Donnic, striking out with no apparent motive or reason. Hawke can see the muscles in Donnic’s cheek twitching, like he wants to say something, to do something, but knows that if he does, he’ll only make it worse for everyone. T’s mouth is set in a grim line, his eyes unfocused past the heads of his men. It looks like apathy, but Hawke watches as his throat bobs when Ranger takes a particularly nasty blow to the jaw.

The afternoon wears on into evening, and their shadows lengthen beside them. Hawke can practically feel the skin on his face and arms drying out in the sun but doubts he’d get any water if he asked. His knees hurt where they’ve been pressing into the wood of the dock for hours. Has it been hours? It feels like hours. When he lifts one of his knees to relieve the pressure, one of the Qunari behind him hits him hard enough that he falls forward, barely catching himself before his face hits the ground. He’s choked by his own shirt as the Qunari uses it to haul him back upright, his breath rasping in his dry throat.

What are they waiting for? It’s clear they’ve won, but for what purpose are the Qunari holding the Templars here? Why haven’t they been killed yet? The Templars wouldn’t have suffered to hold Qunari prisoners. And it’s this thought that furrows his brow as he kneels there, looking between Donnic, T, and the Qunari guards he can see without moving. He realizes, stuck there in the slowly setting sun, that he knows next to nothing about the Qunari, their goals, their motives. He’s never given it thought before, just walked in lockstep with the orders he was given, killed Qunari because...why? To his chagrin, he’s been as bad as any Templar, assuming that if he’s the good guy (or, at least, a decent one), then by logical extension the Qunari must be the bad guys. He’s not so sure anymore. 

Finally the radio crackles. The Qunari nearest T roughs him up a little as he grabs the device and holds it up. Another beat of silence, some more crackling, and then:

_ “Karasten. We have their Captain detained along with the rest of his men.” _

It really had been a trap. A clever, well designed trap that netted the Qunari the Templars’ second-in-command and at least two of his lieutenants, plus not a small number of the Templars’ best shock troops. And, at least here at the Docks, without much of a fight. Hawke doesn’t know when the raid on the house was supposed to go down, but if he were in charge he wouldn’t have scheduled it for too long after hitting the Docks to reduce the possibility of a distress call being sent. Seems that fight lasted longer than this one, assuming that’s why it took this long for the other group to be notified, and Hawke bites his lip and hopes that “detained” is as innocuous as it sounds and means they’re all alright.

“Casualties?” 

_ “Three.” _

Never mind. Hawke’s mind, independent of conscious thought, focuses on  _ what the fuck kind of name is Karasten? _ rather than face the chance that any of those three casualties might be Margitte. He can’t focus on that yet, has to stay here with this issue before he can even hope to attempt to address that one.

The Qunari, Karasten, nods to himself, as though that’s an acceptable response. “Take them in.” He attaches the walkie talkie to his belt and lashes out with a foot at T. Donnic, on his other side, keeps him upright, leaning into him for support, talking to him in a low voice so he won’t be overheard.

“On your feet!” the Qunari bellows.

Around the dock, Templars begin the process of picking themselves up. Hawke finds his legs resemble something like jelly when he tries to get one foot under him, and he tilts into Ranger, who, judging by their scowl, had just discovered something similar about their legs. Leaning against each other, the two of them manage to drag themselves standing, though Hawke’s legs nearly give out again when they’ve straightened fully, the blood rushing uncomfortably back through his veins. He’s dizzy from the sun, the change in position, and the blow to the head earlier probably didn’t do him any favors either. Everyone seems to be in about the same position, he can hear a couple Templars fall over with no one around to help them stand, but at least the Qunari hold off their random physical violence while they’re all struggling like this. 

When they’re all standing solidly, Karasten takes a moment to examine the assembled Templars. He scoffs, dismissive.

“Unworthy.”

Ranger’s arm against Hawke’s chest alerts him to the fact that he’s taken a step forward, toward Karasten, without realizing it. He backs up immediately, not consciously wishing to bring attention to himself, though it appears his impulse control might be of another mind. He’ll have to mention that to Karl, see if that’s something medication-related and if there’s anything to be done about it. 

He wasn’t fast enough to go unnoticed, though, and Karasten steps around Donnic and T to approach Hawke, stopping but two feet away. So temptingly close, and Hawke feels Ranger’s arm flex against him as they keep him from moving forward again.

“Something to say,  _ bas? _ ”

Ahead of him, Hawke can see Donnic shaking his head in tiny little jerks, but he arches his eyebrows and runs his tongue along his teeth anyway and says, “Yeah. Fight me.” Beside him, Ranger snorts and lowers their arm, and he’s not quite sure why or if he appreciates the insinuated sentiment behind it. He rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck, not taking his eyes off the Qunari leader.

“Not too much trouble to overwhelm anyone, given numbers. Nice plan. Worked out, good for you. But here’s the thing: ain’t so many of you as there used to be and I don’t really feel like going anywhere. So you,” he points, “and me,” gesturing at his chest with a thumb, “fight. You win, you can dump me off the docks and take the rest of them wherever you like. I win, we’ll probably dump the lot of you off instead.”

Hawke spreads his arms to the sides, doing his best to look inviting. If he can lure the leader into single combat, he’s pretty sure he can win. And even if he can’t, he can distract the man long enough for Ranger and the rest to get a headstart on taking down the other Qunari. He can see Donnic, his lips pressed tight, and nods. Donnic gives him a withering glare, but though he closes his eyes like he’s developed a massive headache and Hawke’s the cause, he nods back and elbows T to get him in on it. 

The sun’s in his left eye as it sets, but that just means it’s in Karasten’s right, and that’s a trade Hawke’s just fine with making. He can see the gears turning in Karasten’s head, weighing the decision to give in to what Hawke’s proposing or follow the orders he was likely given. The Qunari steps closer, locking eyes with Hawke but extending a hand over Hawke’s shoulder. Hawke’s nostrils flare as he sees his bowie knife exchanging hands and gliding past his ear, but he tamps down on any other physical reaction, clenching his teeth even as he offers Karasten a casual grin. Either he’s getting the fight he wants or he’s about to get executed, and Karasten’s face gives nothing away as he takes his time examining the blade.

Hawke taps the toes of his left foot against the ground. “We doing this?”

Without warning, Karasten lunges, swiping at Hawke with the knife. Hawke dances backward to avoid being gutted though his shirt isn’t as lucky. He risks a quick look down, curling his lip more at the slash in the clothing than the slight welling of blood that starts to seep into the edges of the cut. The next strike to come at him he’s ready for, and he jerks backward, slapping Karasten’s hand wide. He steps up inside his guard and jabs his elbow into Karasten’s throat, slamming his other fist into Karasten’s solar plexus. The Qunari stumbles backward a few steps, dropping into a three-point crouch, then looks up at Hawke, glaring out the top of his narrowed eyes. Hawke bares his teeth and settles into an easy defensive stance, raising his hands but not high enough for a true guard, like he doesn’t expect the fight to be too hard. Karasten’s lip curls at the offense and he straightens, flipping the knife from one hand to the other and back.

And then there’s a cracking noise Hawke can’t quite place, a sound he hasn’t heard in many years. Karasten’s mouth falls slack, his eyes widening, and he slumps to the ground, a hole in his temple. Hawke drops too, flinging his arms over his head. That sound again, from multiple directions this time, and he can hear more bodies hitting the dock but he can’t tell if they’re Qunari or Templar without raising his head and he’s not about to risk a high-powered bullet himself to satisfy his curiosity. Because he knows now, after hearing it again, that whoever’s shooting has access to military-grade rifles and suppressors. After a minute of lying on the ground, he hears nothing but silence, nothing but his breath too loud against the stillness, nothing but his heart’s arrhythmic distress. And then, after a minute more, it’s like people realize they’re still alive and from nearby comes someone’s panicked laughter and soft “what the fuck”s from someone else as whoever’s left starts moving again.

And then: “Hawke!” Donnic’s voice, directly above him. He lowers his arms, rolling his head to look up. Donnic seems unharmed, by the recent hail of bullets anyway, but his eyebrows are so firmly creased in the middle of his forehead that Hawke wonders if they’ll stick there. Hawke pushes himself up in to a crouch and takes in the new scene on the docks.

Every Qunari is down. Some with one hole in their skull like Karasten, some with multiple entry points across their body. But every single one of them is unmoving. Dead, Hawke assumes, and he watches as a few of the Templars farthest away from him kick at one of the bodies to no response, confirming his suspicion.

“The fuck happened, Don?” He accepts Donnic’s hand and stands, though he bends down again for just a moment to retrieve his bowie knife from Karasten’s dead hand. After wiping it clean on the Qunari’s clothing, he rehomes it in the sheath at his back. Donnic shrugs in answer to his question, and they both stand there, nonplussed and stunned.

T makes a full circuit of the men, checking them over for injuries and listening to their versions of what happened, before he snatches his walkie talkie back from Karasten’s corpse. He hesitates, finger hovering over the push-to-talk button, and Hawke can see his hands shaking. Not that he blames him. An op like this going sideways like that, hostile Qunari on the other end of the radio, and a mystery angel-gunner force taking out their antagonists? It’s a lot. Makes him glad he’s not the one in charge. How would you justify to the Commander radioing to the Captain after finding out he’s been captured by a hostile force and said force believes you to be captured as well? The wrong move is likely to result in the deaths of the Templars sent to the house. At least, Hawke would be hard-pressed to think of a reason for the Qunari to keep them alive after something like that. But if the Captain were able to get out of his situation, he’d be in the same catch twenty-two they are...and on the off chance they were mysteriously saved as well, radioing would be the only way to let him know they were OK.

Hawke watches the calculations play over T’s face and elbows Donnic, jerking his chin toward T. Donnic scowls at him but nods, his feet already pointed that direction. He places a hand on T’s shoulder, guiding him a little farther away from the rest of the Templars so they can have a more private discussion. Ranger watches them go, eyes narrowed, before turning back to the task it seems they’d assigned themself while everyone else came down from their shock: dragging the Qunari bodies to the side of the dock and kicking them over into the sea. The choice between trying to eavesdrop on T and Donnic and helping Ranger shift the bodies is perhaps more difficult to make than it should be, and it’s only after another minute of looking between his options that Hawke exhales and moves to pick up the feet of the body Ranger’s currently hauling by its arms. Ranger squints at Hawke but doesn't say anything until the two of them have swung the body into the sea and turned around to go for another. The rest of the Templars are huddled close in the same groups as they'd been for the initial assault, tending to their wounds and whispering to each other, shooting furtive glances toward T and Don.

“What do you think?” Ranger’s voice is soft, pitched so it won’t carry.

Hawke grunts as he picks up the feet of another Qunari corpse. “Think we just got fucked twice and don't know it yet.”

Ranger snorts, and they finish shifting the rest of the bodies in silence. By the time they're done, T is pacing where the road stops and the docks begin, some fifty feet away from everyone else. Donnic is stationary, his head tracking T’s movements every so often but mostly keeping an eye on the places they assaulted the docks from, which were to be their exit points as well, and the warehouses around them. At this point, Hawke is one hundred percent sure they’ve overstayed, sure that any minute is going to bring Qunari reinforcements out of the woodwork. He eyes the warehouses, squinting at the door he’d been facing earlier, then gestures to Ranger that he’s going to go check it out. Anything’s better than sitting around thinking you’re gonna get ambushed again; might as well go seek it out if it’s going to happen. Ranger stares at him, raises their eyebrows the barest fraction, and shrugs, lifting one hand palm up as if to say “be my guest.”

At least they look like they’re watching his back as he turns to go. He opts for the most direct route, not interested in wasting time trying to sneak up to the door. If the Qunari are there, it’s not like they’d be unaware he’s coming. The light is dimming, the sun finally giving up the sky to the moon and stars, and Hawke taps his phone on his leg to turn on the flashlight as he approaches. The space between him and the door seems to expand then shrink, and he’s standing with his hand on the doorknob before he has time to fully comprehend that he’s there. He debates for a second, between having the phone light or drawing his knife, but that’s all the time it takes.

The door opens and bodies again stream out, forcing Hawke to step to the side or be run over. He nearly drops his phone in his haste to draw his knife, but the people pay him no mind, just keep coming, heading out of the warehouse and toward the Templars. There’s only four of them, but they walk with a purpose, heads high, shoulders back...and carrying the rifles that downed the Qunari. Hawke can’t see much of them in the gathering darkness other than the kerchiefs tied over most of their faces and the shades of gray camouflage covering the rest of them. When he turns around, there’s an identical four approaching from the other warehouse. The Templars on the dock have formed up into two battle lines facing the newcomers, who stop ten feet away from the lines and fall into a parade rest. 

Hawke frowns as he follows behind them, curving around to stand near Ranger. The snipers don’t speak. Dusk settles in, and Hawke flexes the fingers gripping his knife. Getting hit point blank with a .308 would hurt like hell, but the chances of one of the snipers getting their rifle up in time to actually shoot him is slim. He’s more likely to face the butt end of the gun as they swing it up. And if he’s gonna rush them, he’d better do it now before he loses all the light. He elbows Ranger, gestures with his chin to the two snipers on the right. Ranger, to their credit, doesn’t respond, just breathes in and stretches, tapping T behind them like it’s an accident. A second later, Donnic bumps into Hawke, apologizing and moving forward again. Hawke grins. Four on eight is much better odds.

There’s no good way to signal, so he just charges, counting on swift reaction times from the rest of them. He’s not disappointed, as Ranger surges next to him like they’d anticipated when he’d move. The first sniper doesn’t act fast enough and drops to Hawke’s fist. The second does, and the expected butt of the rifle slams into Hawke’s chin. He reels, tasting blood and seeing stars. The second sniper taps the barrel of the suppressor against Hawke’s head before he can recover. Ranger’s two are down, but they hesitate a moment too long upon turning and seeing Hawke with a gun to his head.

A car door slams, Hawke flinches, and Cullen’s voice rings out, “Stand down!”

Hawke drops his knife to the ground in an instant and holds his hands to the side. Several too long heartbeats later, the gun disappears from his head and the sniper resumes their previous position. Hawke pivots and salutes Cullen with the rest of the Templars, relief and confusion warring within him. He settles for relief when Cullen approaches to clap him on the shoulder before pulling T and Donnic aside for a more private conference. He’s still processing that when someone small and blonde flies at him, punching him so hard his arm goes numb. He jabs back, then points at Ranger next to him, who’s watching the exchange with mild curiosity.

“You’ve been replaced,” Hawke says, trying to ruffle Margitte’s hair, unsuccessful as she dodges out of the way. “They’re on the dream team now.”

Ranger looks like they’ve eaten something sour. “No,” they say and walk away.

Margitte laughs and body checks Hawke gently. “Looks like I’m back in.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

At the side of the road, near where Cullen pulled T and Donnic for their talk, are more of these kerchiefed, camouflaged people with rifles. Hawke points at them and Margitte shrugs.

“They came out of nowhere. Saved our asses though, so…”

“Good shots.”

_ "Fucking good _ shots.”

One of the snipers joins Cullen’s group, and it looks like introductions happen for T and Don. The sniper leader gestures some at their people loitering near the cars they must have driven up in, and maybe half of the gunmen get in and drive off. The rest of them finally cluster up near the road, leaving the Templars free to get out of their lines and resume their wild speculations with each other. The Templars from the house raid join the rest of them, and there’s a lot of hand clasping and hugging, as the casualties are assessed. Hawke keeps his mouth shut, crosses his arms over his chest, tucking his knife away first, and keeps his eyes on the proceedings. He trusts that in time Cullen will let him know what’s going on. Even if it’s not right now, he knows he won’t be forever in the dark. A large van pulls up behind the cars still parked on the road, and one of the snipers lounges out the driver-side door. 

The whispering behind Hawke fades as Cullen nods and walks back to address the Templars, the sniper leader at his side, Don and T trailing a little behind. The Captain spreads his hands, quieting the last of the murmurs.

“Your questions will be answered in time. For now, we must leave before the Qunari come back and in greater numbers than we could hope to deal with, even with our new allies.” He gestures to his side and the man next to him pulls down his kerchief, exposing a weaselly face complete with the worst stubble-moustache-goatee combination Hawke thinks he’s ever seen in his life. The look somehow gets worse when the man tries to smile.

“This is Erimond of the Venatori.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A face ref for those of you interested in Ranger](https://stitchcasual.tumblr.com/post/173502939619/please-meet-my-newest-child-those-reading)
> 
>  
> 
> As ever, my thanks to the people who keep me sane and functional: tiny, nonny, the block, the bananas, my husband (even though, fingers crossed, he'll never ever read this)
> 
> And a million thanks to you who read and comment and kudos <33 I could never do this without you


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